As the calendar on
The wall turns to
December.
You decide to bid me
A goodbye.
I wait scratching
My old scars..
To remind myself..
Of my fresh thirst.
That only you could
Have thawed.
The fresh etch of
Yearning that only
You were worthy of.
And how through
The groove carved
By the fate itself,
You came in like
The wish granted
By a shooting star.
My soul can go
Adrift now as
You'll soon be gone.
Might need something
To hold on.
Give me a moment
I can tag it with.
Maybe a kiss to
Leave a mark.
Or you would like to
Stab again?
A scar has a bit more
Shelf-life.