you were my temple my mural my sky

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summers have always been cruel;
with heartbreaks and fallen flowers and
hot orange skies that remind me of dead goldfish.
somewhere between the blur of march rains, afternoons spent 
tearing up to taylor swift
and autumn red bleeding in,
I get myself killed.
I wake up in the morning
with the familiar ache of
grief weighing me down.
it whispers, ‘it’s not the same anymore.’
I quietly walk past it and goes on pretending to live.
at nights, it finds its way back to me,
like a stray dog looking for
warm corners in cold winter streets.
it staggers around me, chokes me, and stabs me over and over.
it tells me that I cannot hold your hand again.
it tells me that I cannot tell you that I love you again.
it tells me that I’ll rot everywhere you once kissed me.
it tells me that you’ll forget but I’ll remember it all.
at nights I die a thousand little deaths.

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