There are days when I want to
become someone's poem,
that thought which dances in their mind
when they see abendrot kissing the sky
and that atmosphere which even lulls chaos to sleep.

My lover's shirt smells of my friend's perfume
and I daily take drags of that smell to exhale
another heartbreak poem.
His eyes whisper to me a one-liner
"I can't make you my poem,
but I will surely give you mad topics
to write one, darling"

I am not a thought, I am a number saved
with no red heart attached at the end of the name
in my lover's phone.
His fingers immediately peck my number
carelessly and sends out a message to me
whenever his sky goes achromatic.

My lover's lips nibbles where my neck ends
and then lingers on the shoulder blades protruding
from my skin which today's generation goes gaga over
but for my lover it's a sunken space where he can daily
gag out chaos whenever he leaves the bed beside me cold at 3 am and goes back to his 'happy place'.

Maybe I am meant to be like this only,
collecting heartbreaks to join poetry.

©thousand_splendid_thoughts