To my Pretty Crimson

Was it always effortless to write with a mask on,

to tell the truth and nothing but the truth,

I feel nothing,

everything is foreign and strange,

I try to lose myself in the euphoria

but I can’t.

The pit of my stomach has had this feeling for days – Empty.

If I stash the words good enough and throw away the keys to this lock,

will you still be able to find yourself deep inside of my flaws?

I have mastered how to go without comfort,

I am learning day by day,

I am learning how to bear the pain that has no juxtaposition,

I have to remember that, each and every day.

It’s a hit of tsunami wave containing every surge of pain,

the way my chest is filled with indescribable pain,

how useless.


I saw that you love it when someone writes about you,

especially if I’m doing the writing it seems.

I won’t write much now,

so here I am.

One last poem.

With a solid peep to your eyes,

with every whisper,

with every letter,

a silent murmur that says nothing,

but if you notice a little on my lips,

it ingresses an I love you

each time you catch me staring at you

and I look away ever so quickly.

I wonder when I catch you staring,

do you mumble the same when I flip my head away?


I love to write, but you wonder what do I write,

you wonder if it’s about you, you, you, you, you

or her, her, her, her, or her.

It’s about you.

This is about you.

You know who you are.

I remember the first conversation we had,

getting into my head,

beyond those eyes that peer,

that leer,

that steer straight into mine.

We speak for five minutes and it feels like I’ve

known you for a handful of lifetimes.

It stays as it stays, and one day,

very soon day,

I will never be.

As ironic as it is, I am strong.


So let’s talk about the sun dating the moon,

never meant to be,

one gives an eternal nap to the other,

holding each cloud up,

think about it until it hurts.

My veins swell more quickly than a mosquito bite

because I have forgotten to brush the bug spray,

I’ve lost count of the needles that have bled me,

they feel my blood type and skin are irresistible.

Then the sun asks the moon to come out and

slow dance,

always, always, always,

it is like how you choose not to figure out my modern poetic romantics.

I am just another script written wrong,

it is one of those days,

loping in the metal bridge,

I am a little tired,

I will just rest my head on those shoulders,

and I must tell you,

there’s got to be more to life.

I would be just a simple glimpse of what could have been.


Today, this remembrance will end,

today will end,

in this remembrance,

I write down every detail

because I don’t give a fuck.

I will play a slow dance,

I am full because of you,

I am empty because of you.

In this remembrance,

metaphors never suffice,

and the poetry isn’t just about love,

and the poetry isn’t about sadness anymore.

In this remembrance,

I will remember you as my pretty crimson,

and if I fade too soon,

don’t let this remembrance fade.


Poets will write poetry,

clouds will use rain to veil them,

writers will just put up another shield

and this isn’t any different,

at least,

it’s an ending I can expatiate on.


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