Dearest,
I stopped breathing for a little while last night.
All that I could taste was the warmth
of my own blood
lingering in my mouth. I
couldn’t see after some time either.
Didn’t see anything that moved
like that
and prayed,
lest I die
in the common verity of dying.
For my blacked vision brandished
the memories
of last summer.
As your dress twirled among
the summer fields,
the wind
embracing your hair
like its own.
Blood rushed out
of me.
And my heart pumped
against my chest,
like it does
against yours;
on the warm summer nights.
when your body
would write poetry
to mine.
I craved nothing
more than your
lingering touch against
my skin. Craved the
delicacy of your smile,
as it painted your face, a
different kind
of pristine.
My fingers thirst for
the lush of your mane,
the scent of your nape.
The affection of
your lips,
as they’d trace
starlit kisses against mine.
Since then,
I have been trying
to breathe a little more.
to muster the strength
in my sinews to
run away.
to run back to you.
Wars have to be some of the saddest,
damned things ever.
Ti amo, my love.
I’ll come back to you.
soon.
Moyurie Som is a seventeen-year-old Arctic Monkeys fangirl and Mad Men maniac. Poetry to her is catharsis, a fire that makes words gurgle out from inside her into curly-wurlies inked across paper. When she’s not writing, she likes exploring art, undertaking gastronomical adventures, or documenting her life online. Or maybe just sleeping. Reach her at [email protected] and visit her blog at www.vodkaonheels.wordpress.com.