Slowly, I wither like a forgotten Dandelion in December Breathing in sync with the tick of a dying clock, Grief settles under my tongue, it tastes like old-school heartache, Despair, a version of fifty shades of gray weighs like an ocean on my chest. Where is the love? You say, Is it gone with the wind? Maybe. Smiles fail to hide a garden of massacre in my eyes.
Slowly, I die like a city burning with the October sunset and I'll fade away like a memory buried six feet under, beneath perfumed metaphors and decaying ache.
And if I'm not here when the sun undress the sky, keep feeding the fire, brew the Jasmine tea, tie a golden ribbon by the old mango tree,