I really wish
the universe had found
a way to let me know a bit earlier
that you were just going
to be a temporary
existence in this
permanent solitary heart,
the aftermath's pretty much the same;
well, it could be worst I mean
storms get predicted
so why can't you?

I sat on the table, looking at her
eyebrows furrowed,
protests and grief comes out,
like daggers flying right out of her mouth.
Each swallow, I felt it
somewhat stuck to my throat,
as I listen to her incessant rants,
speaking badly of him,
just because it hurts.
I couldn't help but wonder, did she
really love him,
the way I thought she would
or did she just do it, because even
after all these years
she only thought she should.

This is the ending story,
the last page of our fleeting romance,
where happiness confronts
you, right in the face
and tells you how fugitive it is,
that self-growth does not always come
with glee, but also with a price to pay.

Label me a hurricane if it fits,
you think I trampled
on these hearts but they are nothing
but counterfeit;
there's no way to tame
a tempest you see,
you can't blame me for being a misfit.

If my tears could grow trees
with every drop
from the pain you caused,
the world
would flourish;
growing like the sadness
you impetuously bestowed.

I feel like I felt just
a little
too much
to convince myself that
this is nothing.

She is a blank slate
pleasant sight of purity,
always caught in mire artistic situations,
attracts nothing but cold, grimed,
treacherous hearts,
somehow, always ends up in tainted hands,
to painters who were not meant
to hold a brush.