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 .

- Ruhii


What is this ?