in the morning,
you wonder to yourself why
you feel effusive,

and then you remember that
you were left with
nothing but melancholy.

he left you with pieces of yourself
still under his teeth and you
ponder why you
feel so empty.

you always put fragments
of your tumultuous love on
anything else that ensorcelled
you and yet you still
question why you
feel so vapid.

in the afternoon,
you gaze at the gaps of
your woven heart,

admiring how you still chose
to love albeit it has been
treated by uncouth and
cantankerous men, grabbing your
jagged edges and claiming it as a phantom's home.

walking home was certainly an
experience for you, you were
scrupulous on avoiding the cracks
on the sidewalks because you
were afraid you would fall too deep and wander around the empty
hallows of quandary.

in the evening,
you wear
a careworn visage.

the efflorescence that you
once desired for was kept
untouched at the kiss of the
pale moonlight, swooning you with every echo of apologies dripping down
your god-forsaken body.

your heart, beaten and
turned into everything
sublime, is ensconced behind
the walls, cosseting the bruises
he had left you and not once did his
eyes become rueful.

loving is a mixture of
boiling thoughts and sleepless
nights, a state of perplexities
wherein you plead that
maybe, just maybe, he still thinks
about you too.