You'd have my heart by March, when the giddy Christmas carols and half-hearted New Year kisses fully thaws. I promise to give it in whole, in return for you to be kinder and warmer. Stop pushing people away in the morning. The Sun haven't quite settled in yet and you know you'd regret it at the end of the day, anyway.
Your Valentine's card is going to be blue, white ribbons and subtly tear-inked by their edges. My ventricles are choking. Blue for all there is, I can't breathe. My veins are red and blue and I chose blue to be. The colour of death adorned on rosy pictures. A masterpiece in all it's glory.
When April rolls around, I would wait with ease all the endless tricks people have up their sleeves. Falling for mediocre tricks consciously in my wake. People love me when it's convenient for them, then trace breadcrumbs out of the back door, hear the knock on the door when they need me. Abracadabra. Aprils are for fools. You know, ones that kept hoarding in the same souls that left them, shaking from the April rain because they believe in second chances.
For some kind of love, it takes more that twelve to be counted as love. Count back to ten, slowly. Why ten?
Well, I need somewhere to start.
