I wish I could write a poem. one where words fall into a rhyme to take your breath away. it may not make sense to many but I know you would understand.
like a starry night
I've been told that people are like poems. I can write a letter then another and a few more to a word to a line to some metaphors but I wonder if it ever will look like you.
perhaps you aren't a poem that fit so well on some white sheet for a stranger to read. you are stories of countless lives that feels like one, the stories wind carries on December nights.
aren't we all are some mistakes that need some correction? moving a little forward to catch a little breath.
I cannot tell how many stars have been died since the last time I wrote to you it looks so different but you would understand.
do you ever miss the stars that aren't there anymore, or does it scares you that they don't care about what you write about?
maybe people aren't poems, but stars that you write about from afar you only miss the ones that you write about.
maybe it is all our futile attempt to find a meaning to an existence that exists for a moment then drift afar.
I wish I could write but you would understand.
are words enough to tell what you feel, or the flickering lights up above are enough on a silent night? how would you know when I die if all you could hear is this familiar silence that the wind carries, would you feel the melancholy when the wind caress your skin, or would you look for warmth and wonder about the stars?
I wonder what you would write on a night like this, where the wind is a little too cold. but you always loved the snow that fall a little late a little far.
if you could be anywhere where would you go one among the stars or some lines on a white sheet?
I wish I could write, but I can't, I know you would understand.
one thing i never write about is the flowers you left everyday on my doorstep,
they don't smell of love, i even thought it should, at least, smell like apologies but they dont,
they smell of revenge in the sweetest way possible, the kind that hurts the nose but you can't complain, for it's a personal attack that affects only to whom it is intended to be given,
they smell of guilt that cling to your shirt, the smell that makes you want to burn the clothes even before you take them off, the reminder you never want to be reminded of, that you taught someone to grieve and forgot to teach how to move on,
they smell of confusion, that everyday i am tempted to look back to see if i come out of tombstone instead of door.