My life was never a
Muse,My love never
An ode.My actions
Were never a metaphor
And yet our relationship
Seems like spilt ink.
The sky seems too
Clouded as I squint
My eyes upwards
To look at the blood
Red moon.A small
Token of my scars
To the universe that
Now thunders inside
Me.I am no poet today
As I quietly hum and
Whistle to the song
Over which you danced
Everyday with that stupid
Smile,making your hair
Fly everywhere,
And with it,then,my heart,
Now,my pen.
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