April 2017 – The month that was

April was unkept journals and purple flowers blooming on my driveway. It was silence, and uncertainty, and symptoms of increased gravity. It was travelling and recurring dreams and trying to built my own lighthouse.
With dilated eyes, dark as black holes, I watched him smoke his cigarettes and scatter the ashes; he smiled, but it sounded like goodbye.
               (Breath in, breath out.) – Goodnight for now…
And then a voice, I haven’t heard for months. Are you ok? Do you want to meet?
{Do you still care?}
I see my world reflected inside raindrops on flower petals and everything is fragile, impermanent, everything but soul-made poetry. I see you and I exhale lies, because the truth won’t set us free. {Do you really want to know me?}
Last day of April – one more birthday, one more candle. Poet girls rarely survive, but my heart is still beating. And I’m so close to believe in the girl in the mirror.

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