A different kind of blood flows through your eyes.
A rare shade of red, similar to
the lipstick stain on my pillow.
Mama says it's the red in the skies
that sometimes spells our names
on the mirror fog. But I don't believe her.
The sunlight through your fingers looks red.
Like the crushed roses from last winter.
A lonely house and songs of dead blues that
run skin-deep; like a candle flame that
sprouts green on the moss underneath my feet.
There's a summer haze in the crimson of the sky.
A sway of rose blush, abandoned gardens and
the lilacs between your crooked teeth.
The razor wings of your guardian angel that once
colored the young boy's eyes amber.
Warm blood spills from the sunflowers – a rush
of blue, a sprig of rosemary for my late Mom.
There's a taste of heartbreak on your skin.
A crack of dawn and the aftertaste of red wine
between your teeth. The lilacs have never
grown; we grew them in our barren lands.
Someday, we'll smell our homes amidst the
reds and blues; sometime later, the sunlight
will drown in the waves and paint an art piece.
There's a rare shade of marigold on the other side
of our road. A lonely house and songs from last winter.
The warm sunshine slowly slips into the opaque air.
– maybe we'll both burn at the end of the story.
* * *
A/N: Just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for their incredible comments. Each message has been incredibly encouraging, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate every word. Reading your thoughts and feedback brightens my day, especially when things get tough. Your support truly means the world to me.
Thank you all for taking the time to read and share your comments—you're the best!
Affectionately,
Sreeja.
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Poetrylike another silhouette washed in the blue of the November afterglow - a dying ache of living ... || caffeinated afterthoughts and lovers' vomit ||
