Excuse me, I have trash to throw

It is always the same slippery pavement
It is always the same rainy evening
When my throat has been dehydrated by cups and cups of coffee
and I keep on walking aimlessly
Alone and into the highest floor
and I watch every lanky white man 
transform into you

This is always the time
When the thought of you invade me
Like bedbugs in my mattress
You are something I do not ask for
But you keep on coming at me
Waking the same old bitterness, unalarmed

This when my eyes start to look for a quiet place 
A place to
translate the anger 

We are in different cities
We are our different older selves
You are always your happier self
I am always the same begrudgingly bitter bitch

Who smells like regret 
Who has options to write many beautiful love poetry
But ends up writing a prose of tragedy—I write you

I keep thinking about the wrong goodbye notes 
I slip under your pillow
I keep thinking
What if I did not confess to you at the end of our goodbye
would it be the same
I keep thinking about staying in the same city

I keep thinking about the same old hot lead 
I keep at the bottom of my lungs
It does not comfort me unless
I let you know about
The anger that I conceal from you
consuming every bit of my healing wound 
I keep thinking about 
it is time to get over you
and the time I take the anger to sleep
with me
Because that’s the only part of your memory 
I can take to bed
Not even you

And I wake up realising that
You are not my Romeo
and I am not a Juliet
And all of the tragedy I create in in my head is just 
a small friction
of an infatuation
and that
I do not need to worry of a closure
to heal


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