Brown skin some broken ribs wavy hair, looks a little brown and hiding boldness under the skin of clavicle, she sews poignancy with the melody of heartbreaks.
Wearing the maple leaves as her corsage and daffodils as her skirt, She grills some ingathered metaphors with the lampshades of mouthful of griefs Yet waits for someone to come to pat on her back to whisper her name to write her name on raindrops to love her a little more than everything else to buzz her sonnets while ignoring her trepidation.
But no-one comes and I watch from the welkin but darling ! I'm a mere star somedays I hide behind those dawdling clouds and somedays I drown inside the seine of a damned fisherman but no-one notices neither me nor her sonnets //she dies alone and I fall on her graveyard (alone)//
we wrote many letters to one and another, the replies came in commas and semi-colons before full stops found their way.
it was the seventeenth spring of yours, fourteenth of ours but they say thirteen is a bad number so i suppose last year's was the sinner.
that night you let a phone call melt into the cold, the air was a chilling havoc and in the next morning all premonitions came round to a full zero, when the psychedelic ringtone finally pealed to its zenith and the news of your elongated neck hanging loose like a drooping flower validated the end of spring.
They say life blooms again; new petals, new stories but you never found your way to an eighteenth.
was it the murder of your spring or my persisting placidity to disasters?
tbh #spring wasn't, but it was dark. Do you know why Kizuki died?