The hours of the day seem drawn out lately. The sun shines, so very bright, yet it's dark on the inside. Not a trace of light, just cobwebs and dust, which have accumulated themselves upon the surface of the couch. The night never landed up at our doorstep, yet it feels like it never left. I can still intuit your hurried movements, as your feet ran up the stairs, and out the door. The floor board creaking and squeaking in the dark. I couldn't see the mess you had left behind, for my vision was obscured, and filled up by your starless night sky. Yet, this tumultuous mess replays itself impeccably clear in my head. Feels like I'm incapacitated, sitting at the edge of our bed, watching it all unravel in front of my eyes. All over again. I can't move, I'm bowed down breathing in my own skin. On our own bed. I suffer, I do. It's an endless cycle, in which I seem to be confined. Like a record player, with a song on loop. No pauses, no breaks. And this melody, oh it's cruel. It pricks, it stabs, ever so gently, like doves upon your blanch skin. Making even death seem forbearing than this. I am a barren cadaver with dainty flowers on my lips, yet their scent so bitter. My hands are intertwined with vines, whilst I cry an ocean for my own clemency. I can feel the love in my heart evanescing, and residing in the jaws of death; my own palms. I am not yours. I am not who you loved. I am not myself. Melancholy drips off my tongue, the venom running free through my veins, and I can't seem to tell apart, whether it's wine or blood which stains my shirt.
YOU ARE READING
VEIL'D MELANCHOLY.
PoetryNeither salt nor sugar settles on your tongue. Only this blood of mine does. Neither I nor she fills up your heart. Only these tears of mine do. [POETRY/PROSE]
