You amuse me, my dear. You make me laugh with my eyes wide open, blood-red champagne frothing from my cherry blossom lips. Have March gone away as soon as you greeted me farewell with kisses and charming smiles along with your written love letters on my pallid wrists? Oh, pretty one. Take them back, for the saddest poems have sold me out and buried me six feet under ground. Take the scraps and pieces you left on the floorboards as you pack your worn-out suitcase with my heart stitched on its handles.

You’re the kind of man who collect broken shards of glass hearts in the pockets of your denim jacket. It smells like you. It smells broken and never to be mended— your eau de parfum. Tell me so, have I completely lost my mind? I am curled in this infinite bed where the darkness shed a more infinite glimpse of your silhouette. This is our funeral, where only I shall weep as you play your best shot in the bingo of breaking another’s heart. I have taken to write you lovelorn letters on the cerulean sky. You wretched monster, I still write for you, as April saw through me and stabbed me straight to my heart.

Is it too late to wait for you? Come July with its cold winter nights, come another year of fireworks and another jar of broken hearts. I’m afraid that I would still wait for you, when you would never even come back….♥