all's well

oh, you.

you who caused my
nights and affected my
days with your
trembling, ignorant
unfelt fingers

i considered a letter-
an explanation
wandering from my
head to paper
but-
the repetitive essays
from past monologues
swell and fade-
somehow diluting in
their own desire

turning pale-bluish
the colour of safety-
of lighthouses in a distance-
the colour of a two-day
corpse.

and my sadness
(yes, the sadness that has
filtered through whatever
sunny day i was presented
in our tenure)
is this tangible thing
that is held in a box
of last effects
(because out of sight
is out of mind
or so i have heard)

you think it's ended well.

(a statement of which
forced blood and anger
to my hands, as Eve's
crime was made evident-
fucking is not the original
sin-
love is.)

"no worries" i thought
to myself. and breathed
out a smoggy animation
to the world-
a hope for your
complete happiness-
and a sacrifice of mine

and spoke defiantly of
you-
a last stab at cognition
showed our barren love
the door-
and realised:

there's no reason
in sadness
when there is so much
music yet to be heard.