His love
is the winter  
solstice, mounting  
the top of her world
where  
her love  
is the summer  
equinox, embracing  
the basis  
of his

I want to softly whisper
incomplete poems
on your collar bones
that don't rhyme with anything
but your heavy breathing.

I want to bury my face
in the curves of your neck
because you smell like the winter clouds
and I've been gazing at the sky
since you left.

Any song can sound sweet,
if you tune your tone appropriately,
and add a lyric,
with a melody
and I have seen where there is a life,
there is a song
but some songs are not only a love song
that notion was a loop, intense, black and blue passionate song
was not romantic

She was a sad song
and I thought I would know how to make it better
like if I could be the only to love her again,
I believed that everything would fall into a melodious love song
but  I lost a few lines of lyrics
and there was bit melody missing that I couldn't find
and I saw too many scratches on the disc
I couldn't let myself be made no longer
trying to fix her entirety.
.
@Musfiq us shaleheen

and I miss
random things
that I never knew
I could miss.
your body in
my embrace
though it's never
been there,
though it should be;
your scent
in my nostrils
and us,
skin against skin.
I miss your lips
on my forehead,
your arms around me,
your fingers
in my hair.
and what I hate the most,
what I never want to see
is a world
without you with me.

Do you see me first thing in the morning
when you wake up and your eyelids
are heavy with sleep?
Do you taste me in your coffee
when you try to chase away
your dreams?
Do I itch in your palms,
in your arms,
on your lips?
Do you feel that I'm
absent when you go back
to sleep?
When you feel like crying,
do you feel the ghost
of my clumsy embraces
and the ephemeral feeling
of my cheek to your cheek
and my lips on your lips?
Do you turn around mid-movie,
a lame joke on your lips,
and realise I'm not there
to hear it?
Do you feel the emptiness
where I used to sit on your
knees?
Do you miss the scent of me
and the taste of perfume
when you bite my neck?
Do you see me taking your clothes
off when you put them on
in the morning?
Am I still present
in your dreams?
Do you miss my rants
about freedom and equality
and solecisms and hatred
and depression?
Do you miss taking care of me?
Can you see me wrapped around
you when you shower
and the steam hides the places
where I used to be?
Do I vulgarly and rudely
interrupt your dreams
and haunt your thoughts
and ache inside when you breathe?

I hope you do.
I hope I am.
I hope you regret
that you left.
I hope you wish
you had stayed.

I hope I've become
your epitome of a
long-lost dream.

I could write about your eyes,
your smile, your laugh,
your voice, your face,
your scent, etc., etc..
I could go on for days and days,
about your nose, your hands,
your hair, your chest.
Metaphor after metaphor
I could create
a thousand words about the way
you move, you kiss, you hold my hand...
I could.
I could.
I won't.
I'll write instead
about your brain,
about the way you make me feel,
the way you talk about the stuff you like,
the way you think,
or I could just reduce it
to those simple words
dopamine
serotonin
oxytocin

In general,
you leave me out of breath.

i bought a pack of cigarettes tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
i sat on the stairs in the yard of the old house with its walls crumbling,
with its facade turned to dust.
the air was so cold it stung my fingers, frost licking my face,
turning my cheeks blood-red but nothing hurt
as much as you do.

i smoked a cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
the smoke filled me up and i feared
it would leak out of all the holes you punched in me.
it didn't. i choked and i coughed and it felt a little like drowning.
like your mouth on my mouth, like your teeth on my neck.
i choked and i coughed and it felt a little like you
so i liked it.
who cares i almost died.

i smoked a second cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
nicotine ran in my veins,
blue rivers along my pale skin and it felt, it really felt
a lot like love. a lot like you. a lot like us.
galaxies scattered across my skin, poison running in my blood,
yes, it felt a lot like us.
i didn't choke this time, but i think you would have laughed
at the way i ******
on the cigarette ****.

i smoked a third cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
i swallowed cancer like a drug and it stung
at the back of my throat, and it burned and it burned and it burned
as ash gathered at the burning end
and fell to the ground like snowflakes,
little flakes of ash on my sneakers
and it reminded me of your kisses a little, i didn't choke this time.
i laughed. a bitter laugh.
you hurt at the back of my mind as i put
the cigarette out and i thought about the way
you'd look at me, boldness in your eyes, hair a little all over
the place and your mouth
shaped in a little "o"
as you blew circles of smoke out.

i smoked a fourth cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
the cold stung but not as much as my lungs burnt and my brain burned
and you hurt.
i blew smoke out but never quite like you did,
and i thought it looked and was a little
ridiculous maybe
to burn the leaves of a plant wrapped in paper
and fill our fragile bodies with the exhausts
we breathe out smoke like broken steam engines,
ain't it funny, haha.
you'd laugh, harshly, you'd bite me, you were always
a little rough.

i smoked a fifth cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
it's not half as venomous as you were, i decided.
i put it out.
cigarettes are so not worth the hype.
you were.
you are.