Last night at three a.m.
when my conscious drooled
and my heart sat on throne
I wrote my first love
a last poem on love.
The unfinished poem sits
Stares at me and waits for you,
you’d come back to make it throb
or burn us to ashes
At four, she started to speak and said
I wish I could name you after his initial
and draw that sign again
which I thought would hang
on all of our graves
It’s five and she’s still speaking
He is the kin of love
You are the orphan of love
I, poem, is your child
and I love you and never let you go
at six, I stopped listening to her
she touched something broken
and my beliefs are shattered.
I press play the button of my thoughts
the rain dribbles, lovers sing in street
she hides under table still gets drained
And I am lost in letting go.
my thinking plays mind games with me
and tells me, If the rain washes our hands and the water reunites
then maybe somehow my wish comes true
and we are made for each other.
at seven a.m
on seventh july
the poem of love
left me in ruins.
you leave me,
like he left you,
devastated and torn
I can’t stay.
by the time I woke up
time has stopped and she ran away
my paper sits blank
love left too and my soul is barren.
they all thought leaving me will change
my stubborn habit of waiting
even though they knew
I am not capable of letting go.