While the leaves are still green and warm and mornings, crisp and golden, September gently stirs the heart of barren October. The flowering ivy as the herald of autumn, in the heart of the woods has lavish stories of fallen loves awaiting to be taken back by passers. The winds of change prepares to leave nature all naked and ripped as the forest floors covered in blaze maples untrodden reflects back autumn hues to etch our lives with hopes of a new dawn. The nature garnished all anew is prove to endings that are beautiful because beyond them lies a splendid aura that bides to fill our lives in magic. Autumn is so much more than a season, a prelude to my eulogies of a lost love, year after year it evokes the yearnings of a dead heart in ambers and russets. I can clearly see the stony desolation creeping in like forlorn silhouettes echoing my sombre lores as I watch the last leaf fall into the abyss. The warm blushing September sky comes starry clear signalling the fall of the mantle of the autumn hides to paint souls with pastels of past glories to which the leaves were a small part like a page in a rusted book singing the song of evergreen youth that by autumn, gone for good. I have learnt that good things end so a better could start, springs are prized because autumns persist. Just past the horizon there are mournful beauties lingering longer than usual breaking rules, wrecking plans for the one they call fairer than autumn. There are zillions of tales dwelling in fringes of resurrection, a soft nudge of autumn rocking the cradle of concoction in cosmos when all the world sheds, new beginnings breathes.
The last time someone ran their fingers through the knots of my soul I felt spirited like the flowers when touched by the rain. I remember the heavenly scars he left flaming. His voice does to me what melodies of a cuckoo, does to spring breathing new life into dead rims. I see so much history in the way he looks at me. He perhaps not know my heart writes, longer than epic, poems of his enticing aura surmounting all my chaos. An unabridged walk against time to bring him any close despite refutes they call my love, sublime if only he believed once.
The last time someone embraced me so tight all my broken pieces fell right into place I felt like my rustic nomad heart found a home, happy and bright only later to be left rueing over his vicious condemn. Can you love in moderation is the question of the hour because perhaps you know not where lies the line beyond which everything is sin. I see so much pretense in the love he threw back. And until I could get rid of his smoke whiffs from last night upon my lips and in the creases of my linen, he already smelt like my next mistake.
The mistake I would be making for a hundred years more and I don't repent an inch Perhaps I know at the end we are all humans drunk on the idea that only and only love can heal us.
And do you see how unfair god has been since perfection is a myth and good comes with a price, and heavens are locked in for bads I swear he smells like burnt cigarettes and dark poetries even today. He can just look into your eyes and lie you just wouldn't know Damn, his lips are a pair of vice and debauchery graces his eyes.
The other day I threw away the last of the orchids he brought me they are rotten now just like our memories And I hate to say this but I could sniff his falsities in those. Lavenders are bygones and roses were just not our thing never red, never for love. We just painted our own sky with purples and pinks now turned grey. I wonder if he can see all that he have left afloating into my brainwaves are stolen sunsets and eulogies, crushed roses and bleak verses, poetries that never found words, begged time on valentines, dairies spilled in red with both blood and wine and that ring found a new home in the clutch, broken zipped along with a pack of his passport sizes I built a castle of which far from the sane world.
Do you mind ? Oh, please don't You see, I can not give up on them If I could have, I would have long back, perhaps.
I remember he said he will love me with all my madness and I promised to see him through his demons I swear I did but my madness was exquisite that he just couldn't afford. Wish I could see his posed attempts at keeping me He has always been so effortless. Ever seen a dying man make a wish? I wished for him like one They lie when they say 11.11 has all the powers. Even wishbones are a farsighted dream Death of a soul is more painful than a body. I strained at unloving a person I have loved the longest so long that my soul feels as empty as a shell been robbed of its pearl.
My sky is a pastel interlude on ceramic nights, nights that sits on my bosom, so heavy of his fallen vows and promises. My love bathed in solitude is on a wild hunt these days for when asked by the moon "What about love? " I say I have enough to myself Because I see the beauty in being broken I see the splendor of unrequited love and that this wild wolf heart is not made to surrender.