Just tonight, I decided it’s time I move on. I decided it’s enough. I decided to write it down so I will have a digital ink compact with my laptop.
But the moon doesn’t seem to permit.
The walls are still painted in your most favored shade of yellow and by the time the pale moonlight crawls on it, it paints a silhouette that even without vision, without a doubt, I would recognize. How couldn’t I, when you’re the only texture my skin has grown too familiar with?
In the morning, the sun peaks and I know its rays shine of disapproval.
The curtains are still drawn. Sunbeam patches still give me warmth when I drink the coffee I so despise, but you did love most. And in every sip I feel the heat that I’d like to consider warmth, run down my throat, because it is the closest that resembled to your embrace.
However, the stars are an exception.
They tell me you look at them the way you did when you first realized I was more than your go-to person—I couldn’t forget. In return, they guide you home but not back to me.
But in the least possible chance that you come back, I have made my decision.
Perhaps, the walls are still painted yellow and the curtains are still drawn. The days go on.
Nice poems.