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Send My Love To Your New Lover

Your skin is a mirror of last nights dirty sheets.

Your tongue; a bottle of daisy cologne.

Your clothes are stitched from twisted truths and a dark motel room.

Your eyes sparkle with 5 shades of lust.

The nape of your neck; throbs with bruised red scars

from teeth marks and lipstick that wasn’t mine.

 Your fingertips; calloused and rough spent the night carving highways on someone’s else body.

I admire how your 10 stride walk up to me

was effortless and graceful.

The least you could have done,

the least you could have done,

the least you could have done,

was to delete last night’s pictures from your phone.

Yours truly,

Painted Shadow

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It doesn’t look that easy.

I’m trying to figure out why I keep bending the top corner of our pages. I’m trying to figure out why some of the pages are ‘dog-eared’. I’ve scratched at the words a million times, knowing I can never erase them, yet I still try to tear them apart. Cause trying is better than not doing anything. Trying to turn a page is better than staring at it, wishing it turned by itself. I suppose burning the pages is an option. But fire catches far too quickly. So I can’t burn it. I’m not strong enough to burn it just yet. Instead, I just want to turn to the next page. I don’t want to dog-ear the page. I just want to turn it over and start writing. I miss writing about new things and new experiences with new pens. I keep using the same pen, cause you wrote in it once.

I just want to turn a page. Stop haunting me. and stop tormenting me to stay on the same page. I don’t want to anymore.  For Pete’s sake just let me be.

 

Yours truly,

Painted Shadow

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Corner of your heart

Something clicked in me the day you left. Something wise and forbidding to a young mind. It made me realise. It made me regret. It made me sour. Stone cold sour. Something clicked in me the day you didn’t say it back. Something raw. Something real. Something made of bones and dust. Something not expected. Something different. Something uncertain, it clicked that you and me, were not meant to be. It was dark. And old. Beaten up and over used like a dusty old rag.Except, it was us. We were just new. Barely touched.Barely used. Rarely taken out from the packing.No scratches, nothing.Yet, we faded. And dried like an orchid with no water. Our colour made us strong. But our breaths made us weak till we didn’t feel, till we couldn’t see. or taste. Our minds grew stronger but our hearts not so much wiser. But you’ll keep on dancing. Keep on twirling around. Faster and faster, till the world becomes a blur. Cause nothings easy. Nothing lasts.

”They are shooting stars-a spectacular moment of light in the heavens, a fleeting glimpse of eternity. And in a flash, they’re gone”

Yours truly,

Painted Shadow

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We build.Then we break

First we build and build and build. And then we watch it all fall down. We build relationships, we build houses, we build dreams. And then one by one, sooner or later they all come crashing down till you’re left with nothing but memories of what it used to be.  Memories of who you were.Cause after all that’s happened to you, and after all the crashing and the tumbling, you’re a different person. You either learn to build from what you broke or you don’t but then you keep breaking it over and over again till you’re left with absolutely nothing. Nothing but your bones and your flesh. Your broken bones and raw flesh. And for a while, even that’s enough. That’s company itself, until you get used to it. Then it’s not. Then its just the same old routine and you want more. you keep wanting more. and more. Sometimes you get more. Just sometimes.

Thing is, we can’t stop building. Every day we build something new. We either strengthen a friendship or weaken it. We either end our dream or get one step closer to it. We’re always building something whether we want to or not. Whether we like it or not. And who’s to say it doesn’t make us who we are? Who’s to say it doesn’t make us whole?  Cause it does. It all does. We build to break and learn to build again. Its inevitable. Isn’t it?

Yours truly,

Painted Shadow.