Functional Life

I call myself a writer but all I've ever written were elegies for the love I used to feel for you but died tragically. It died tragically after you left me with open wounds that won't mend; bruised me with words way too abusive, they make me shake uncontrollably even now. 

And your memory, the face that resembles the moon, it haunts me. It haunts me that I run away from the crowd like I'm losing my mind. The cacophony gets louder and your voice, I hear it over the hubbub swallowing me. You call me like you still own all of me. 

Oh I confess, you still do my darling, you still do. Though I claim that my love has died a long time ago, it throbs with the heart you occupied.You scarred my skin with your name so I will remember you for eternity. And I will surely remember you. For you gave me so much to remember. 

I know you're gone. But my pen just can't stop writing about you. So I write another piece...another cold work of art. For the twenty seventh time, here's to the love I want to shower you with but has to die because you left before I can even offer my heart to you. Now here I am, staring at a blank space that used to be our home. 

Oh darling, why does love have to be so cold?