And the pages of old books
Clipped between your frosty fingertips
Each leaf yellow and crisp
Used and brittle
They reminded me of leaves in early Novembers
Cracking and breaking
Underneath bodies and footsteps
Which brings to mind that
I should have my books
Stacked upon my pillow, my dreams
Resting on nightmares unopened.
Breaking my neck
from the incessant presence of you.

In light of you
and the endless mugs
Of coffee you drink by midnight
Of which you buzz with fevered vigor
only to crash in heaps
Your eyes closed, lips chapped
A punctured canvas or a crumbling sculpture
Or so that’s how I imagine it to be
The way your couch
Catches the weight of you
The way my brows cave
At the slightest inattention.

In light of you
And the bottles of liquor
you burn down your gullet
Hues painting your insides
in a dance of dim and light
But somehow, it seems to me
like coating walls with cheery colors
To hide the damning shade
only then to realize
that wallpapers with florals
and dancing endless branches
would suit best the
vast emptiness you created.

In light of you
and how hard it is write about you
My skin raw with open blisters
and the silver veins I drew.
In light of you
and all the things you took
Limbs bent, broken, blue–
wrapped in bruises
you never never saw
or knew
partly because I made them
partly because I chose to.
partly in light of you.


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