Your eyes, sweety. They’re heartbreaking.
In no inches. I can see.
They emit something sad, calamitous sceneries.
How you try to speak, just to fail and stutter.
The way you talk, and try not to tell the thing I don’t want to hear.
I could listen. To your expression.
The joyless beauty your iris reflects. Every single blink.
In this closeness. I vividly smell your heart’s scent.
It’s lovely. Like a healthy sugar, sweet, yet not deadly.
And the music your breath sings. It leaves me hanging.
“How are you?” You asked.
“I am fine, but not that fine. . .
I am not fine, but not that not fine.”
And the finale question shows up, “Can we try again?”
And we open up a new canvas. To paint a new art.
Beginning. Never feels so distant.
In my yesterday’s future. You’re still there.
With your poignant eyes.
With your innocent bleak smile.
With witless and withering blesses.
And to go back to that chapter.
Where we met under violin’s rain.
When we listened to the orchestra played,
by the drizzling cosmetique in the sky.
Not to forget that one umbrella to cover our ‘igˈzistəns’.
It’s the propinquity effect, sweety.
A reason to open the door, and let the guest…
You, become a forever heart-part.
In my very weary life.