The Fickle

[Disclaimer: Cigarette was only used for ~*aesthetic*~ purposes as I do not (and never will) smoke]

I have gripped the same sheets that have caved you in lost sensations. I have seen the bustling city in the same enamored light I used to see you in. I have been lost and drowned, sunk like I used to in between the hollow of your neck. I have had boisterous laughs and uncanny conversations with strangers in busy streets. I have over sped and downed too many beers, smoked a lot of cigars, and whispered in menthol breaths and blown out eyes, “there are crimes I have easily committed but loving her was what kept me in prison.

I have learned to write you in more ways than one – have burned down my words in the spaces of my typewriter. I have seen the ashes falling slowly and freely, like my green scarf I lost one day to the sea – fleeting.

I have shelved writing about you, and I can sugarcoat it with whatever white lies I used to whisper in your ear; but the only reason was just because I only remember you in broken down deja vu’s.

I do not entirely forget things but it’s as if i’m only fond of it like how I loved illusions – and the illusion we were in, seems to be our only magic all along.

So, tell me, how do I forget looking through your pain stricken eyes. I have my suitcase full of regrets, the moon apologizing for all of its debts, and me telling you one last time,

I didn’t fall in love

not with you

or anybody else,

as I do not know of love

that is not of her.



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