You were not the person I laid out three stalks of different hue of pink flowers for on his table during that viciously scorching New Year afternoon.
You were not the person I gave all my pooling tears to that December.
You weren't the love I know of that Spring, not the one I colour white with pale tablets of analgesics,
not the person I was eager to give Valentine card to,
not my April hums of cicadas.
The monsoon of adolescence is fading by the subsiding rain, the beeping sound, shutting down, there are worrisome slowly starting fire that I am hypothetically a hypocrite. For if after those few months stranded along the coast of that Island, and you understand this, please understand this: my biggest fear is not being able to.
Etched in stone how dreamy it is the efforts you invested in building and coming around to love yourself. One day, I'll be sure to tell you that the kindness you gave away generously are fucking irreplacable or maybe I'll say "your words reminds me so much of what happiness should sound like," and I'll mean it the same way.
You have to stop running, though.
You'll stop running either way when your feet are sore and home seemed too out of reach when you look over your shoulder.
So, like a clusterfuck of dead stars in the heatwave void night, your canvas is the negative of its polaroid. Orion and Libra. You're not in love with me and in these coming weeks, I will dissociate all of these metaphors off thought of you.
Stay safe.
I'll forever keep you in my mind.
