HER

If I could taste all those cheesecakes

 you baked and burned 

I would smile at the sun and moon 

and tell them at last a definition of kiss. 

I have tasted a hundred different mouths 

so I thought that I know what love really is. 

But the violet bruises in your pink hands

 tell me that am wrong. 

You stand near a coffee shop,

 a preloved copy of Bukoswki in your bag

 and I swear I think of an angel

 in ballet slippers in black stage of heaven. 

When I see you in his arms 

my blood became pale, 

paler than a glass of water and

 my heart a dried blueberry. 

I don't know when to shut up 

so I talk

Until you ask me who am I. 

What should I remind you,

I ask myself. 

I say nothing and flee.

Because that is what am good at. 

That was last summer, 

a withered year away. 

I am exhausted of telling how I feel 

so I write. 

I wear a funeral dress always

 but they call it party .

I open my mouth and

 they add happy as prefix.

In even nights I commemorate 

our first kiss 

and on odd days our last one.

Do you know 

the summer tastes like you?

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