Forgettable

I rinsed my face, when my fingers slide down my nose, something broke, then my left palm was painted red. “Damn, again!” I thought. I didn't pressed my nose to grab tissues, I simply stood there, I lowered my head. Red drops splashed in the sink from my broken faucet. “One, two, three, four...” I wonder how long it would take for my platelets to stop the leak, so I started to count, in silence. Maybe they won't come, I was prepared for it. “Twenty-six.” it stopped.  My blood said I love you to me.

Few days after that day's lunch, the question still has not seen its reply.  Silence means YES.

The first day without me, the heating is finally on, together with my biological cycle. Should I stressed the warmth at night, or the weary body? None of them. I should learn to feel numb — a lesson one billion times harder than mathematics.  Another full moon night, I want to go there, to tell you the golden leaves, the chilly air, that our favourite season is closer and closer, that the forecast says tomorrow sleet shows up to the world. However the two passwords escaped my brain again. I'm ostracized. Then I realised, being mad can be so deafeningly silent. 

I'm so sorry, but, as a perpetual lone-star, I solely love everything bigger.

“I want to say hi.” “Just say it, it is right, firmly.”

In the realm where Autumn's melancholy reigns, And the rain, a spectral hand, doth strip the bough,  From the Marple trees, leaves fall like silent pains,  A woman's heart, a landscape of desolate plough. Her love, a sun that set beyond the hill,  And she, a moon, forever chasing light,  Her heart's Marple, once verdant with love's thrill,  Now stands in twilight, its branches all a-quiver. The rain, it falls, a dirge for summer's green,  Leaving naught but the skeletal truth of bare,  So too her heart, where love once did serene,  Now lies exposed, and feels the winter's snare. She cannot love, for her love is flown,  Like the leaves that dance and never return,  Her heart is a tome where his memory's sown,  In the ink of loss, where it shall forever yearn. O, the Autumn rain, thou art the harbinger of woe,  That dost foretell the end of love's sweet reign,  And she, poor soul, must bear the sorrow's blow, For her love is...

Leaves fall, love departs Autumn's chill seep in Alone, the heart starts  Memory of warmth  In the cold, they haunt