You make me dream of nights I wouldn't choose to live but I'd wake up wanting to relive those.

The golden hour, makes us believe in things that are pleasant but euphoric. It might sound heavenly but tastes like hell.

Your eyes are just as big as the void that occured for the last bullet I took in,

A smile that'd keep me from speaking, I'd try to mumble a few words but I'll end up speaking in a language unknown.

I have miserably failed at loving myself for having loved you with a lot more.

For cigarette burns that caused me tears

For tears that rolled down when I stood in front of the mirror

For sidelining my own self, behind the curtain and the walls.

Walls which were of my favourite colour but soon began to suffocate me.

Baby steps and a jar full of secrets,

A prison I'd never want to get out of,

The cells would remind me of the time our thoughts ran parallel

The dimly lit chamber would strike chords across the evening that I steadily wanted to whisper a commitment, so silent that the Jews would fall to shame.

The stale bread would remind me of the times I felt alive drowning in your lips, fit in a frame but a frame that you'd search for in a bin.

Or you'd never search.

Leave with a note on the bedside table of the imaginary bedroom that we share

And I'd wander in places where we first met, where you'd leave a piece of yourself to give me hints to find you.

Years collapsed and your address changed, the pincode of a different city, a city that you never loved.

But I'd still run and look for you to look at you for the last time and not shy away because of the way you glare and

Kiss your neck, to leave my note,

You'd wander why and I'd have left the city

The golden hour would set and I'd sit on the same bench we did and watch you fade away.

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