You are the one with lips of morphine

I’d rather live with the answer than die with the question.

It seems as if the only cure for this supposed madness is to do what I know best - open up a blank canvas and write out what I am feeling. And suddenly the vague concepts of pain and hurt are given a whole new meaning, and the feeling of suffocation in my chest vaporizes away. Yet, no matter how accurately I write my feelings out, or how soundly I mumble it under my breath, it won’t change the way things stand between me. A poem, let alone a paragraph, is not a magic spell. And the feeling of relief is only temporary. And it seems that the only people who live by their words stay in all-white padded rooms, with a door locked from the outside, listening to music no one’s ever played. It’s all too easy to lose your mind when you lose your heart, they say.

As you drift further into the past
This memory of you fractures and splinters 
Until all that is left is not a picture but a feeling
And you can deny it all you want, but when your lips left mine, your pupils did dilate
There was magic even then, in the littlest things
Like to wake up next to you
And confirm that the images I saw on the back of my eyelids just seconds before
Have all been made real
So I’ll change as much as I can without changing who I am
Just promise me you’ll stay for good this time
       (You say that I am the puzzle, but only you have the right pieces)  


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