My chest constricts beneath these sheets,
drenched within the ghost of your cologne.
A gentle whisper begins to soak the pillows,
that my face has cried and where we used to lay,
before the curtains parted and I was forced
to greet the morning without your snores.
Rusty bars escape my core, tearing through the seams,
of a faltered beauty once stained beneath your breaths.
But feeling more alive was worth contamination--
getting your hands dirty is no where near
losing all sight of logic and falling
into a world too colorful for my sense of logic.
(Take me back to our sheets of black and white:
I can't tolerate stories that haven't finished yet--
...which is why happy endings remain incomplete.)
Fires glow within the skies to spread the hope,
but then there's always a few shooting stars:
The failed gleams that fall into oblivion,
imitating the shadows of earth's most stunning failures.
