March

Will I ever feel something like this?
Your lips, your hands,
your eyes, your hair.
It is now a memory of bliss.

Distant.

Or of what it has already been
in fact, because,
you were the cause
we said everything we did not mean.

Again.

November was stress,
December was a mess.
January painted me golden,
but February got me broken.

Now that it is already March
it has turned out we are no match.
But just in case you want to know,
I think I'll wait for if you show.

In silence.

I want no more furious crying,
no more drama. It has me dying.
Forget me if that is what you need
to quit this wound from the bleed.