it’s better, i think, when break ups end on sour notes.
not sweet melancholy, but lost fingers on unloved instruments
freeing, soothing somehow even,
dripping melted iron, no broken cutlery,
only anger that burns and feeds.
it would take too much maturity
to let you get away with any pieces of me left,
if i didn’t have some resentment clinging onto my person.
to you, who were my friend,
it breaks me how for people once so fond,
apathy is the last matching cloak we wear.
would there be a way to bottle petrichor
to return to peace on a whim
open up my window of perfumes
the blissful damp spell of earth
when trees wave tenderly in chiding whispers
dust settles, but the quieter winds are hard at work
once it’s still, gentle rustles, impregnable dark
those with business outside breathe in the emptiness
a fleeting moment forgotten when night changes
and inside the chaos lingers, builds,
few know how to hold on to the sapience of petrichor
and none who would ever fill me in.