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.
this poem is very brave like your mother's smile. in which every apology has a forgiver, and every defeat has a survivor. this poem is very brave like that unnamed grief you hid in unshed tears. in which you could unlove everything you've lost and rewrite everything that's not yours.
this poem is a tragedy; a tomorrow you could've lived yesterday.
Your first hello is always followed by asking the name of the person you've greeted but I believe you're not identified by your name but by all those people and places you've loved, by all those moments you've felt alive in and by all the art you've created for people you know, for people you might never meet.