Your bare skin brushes mine and a trail of blazing fire , races down my spine . We look at each other and the edges of the world turn soft , shadows blurring in grey patches . A song ends and you shove your hands in my hair , and bring me to you like you need it for survival . We devour each other , trying to blend in together , sucking the life source right out until I can't decide where you end and I start , our existences merge together like two starkly different colours on a pallet .
I am a mixture of all the people who left me , I'm a product of insecurities . I've yet to learn how not to paint myself in the colours of every person I've ever loved . My apartment smells of coffee and books , and I am just another inanimate object waiting for the life to drip out of me through rough poetries . Rain thunders on my window and I pick up pieces of my scorched love and make bracelets out of them , in hopes to pull out a whole string from the tangles on my wrists .
Lately I've been reading the gloomy tales of poets who held tragedies in their lives and had the privilege to end it themselves . Would I ever be one of them ? Maybe I am not a poet , maybe I'm a torn , stepped upon squeezed heart , pulled out of a still warm body trying to put into letters and words and phrases what it was like to be surrounded with your smell , what it was like to slip out of your knuckles when you held too tight , what it was like to paint stars on your back ?
Someday , I'll learn how to keep myself tinged with a single shade . Someday .