light of my life, fire of my grief

light of my life, fire of my grief.

i loved you so much;

the deafening silence in the quiver of my bones; 

you drew a dagger, forth, a ton, of warm steel;

tearing every clothe, every niche of me; 

as you passed through every crevice, as your own light; i stood, 

in incandescence;

my arched ribs extended out to yourself,

when i searched for your unfettering light; i protruded, and 

walloped, 

i missed you like the yearning i'd felt; and my rocks came crumbling down,

of the only sombre of what you had left behind of me.

i was struck when i first heard from you again, was lathered in brown foam; 

a shampoo suicide;

i had a childish whim; i wanted to tell you,

that i was now enlightened for only a month later; 

i had learnt everything you wanted to tell me that i never understood, but i only bore guilt; now halo;

crushed under my suffering; my insufferable grievance;

the light of its warmth had already brushed me, 

and i'd often fell to the footsteps you'd trudged along, 

the frail of my blossoms; chestnuts,

textured;

you ruptured open bones; this vine stuff you left behind had already twirled me,

scathe, lightheaded; 

i was stuffy,

a pale beige of your dough, slate;

from the tears i'd scarfed myself through, a ruin; 

i had soured the dough, 

i was in your kneading, splintered;

when I heard a cutting, a blade that severed;

through, 

piercing me, concorde took route out of my throat;

i gushed from the walls of my throat, out, wounded;

screeching, 

and you felt it in the gut; darling, i

stood ashamed, 

leaving me bare, in this new sun; and i swallowed,

but we withered different; 

in the last text of yourself, my sorrow only humiliated me; 

i grew so frantically restless; the shiver of my body set apart a quail;

a silver tongue, 

"do you still hate me?

would you still come back?"

i missed talking to you, 

my head bowed lower than the weight of uranus;

blue, cold;

a stern stubble;

i couldn't stand next to you, next friday; 

next weekend; a sunday daughter, 

i pleased; for,

the only reason that kept me alive was this pain you left me with;

enough to seep my eyes above;

the surface,

i carried you literally anywhere;

your heartbreak had taken root into me; a kayak dream; 

and i was left with everything; and everything else,

* 

i concurred;

i hadn't showered in six weeks, now,

my eyes burned when I rubbed them,

strings or chords;

pitched cuts; i screamed seething, 

cuts pitched me; 

and for the longest time i harbored fear, 

i was fearsome;

i cut myself a million other times; 

i wreathed breathless;

gasping,

in the sinew of my bridge;

please don't leave,