Tears roll down the glass, even as a lingering sun bids adieu in the background. The red of the wine is a luminous, nostalgic red as if to say that all my love was trapped in that traveling bottle of wine.
I look at the cracks on the ancient stone, gleaming in the melancholic yellow light that has now come on.
Yellow light,
on unpolished wood.
On the parched pages of my book,
edges blunted by the vagaries of time.
The stars are up
in the night sky.
Hanging,
like wet clothes in the balcony,
on a windless day.
You are distant, like the farthest star.
Throbbing away in your own story.
I can see your glimmer.
But can you see me?
Can you see me
writing in this halo
of yellow light?
Like an insignificant blip
on an obscure planet.
The bread is warm now. It has taken on a strange colour, taking me to our yellow lit dinners. Meals of song and conversation. I break into a smile even as your laughter echoes, in the empty rooms of my heart.
I let the tears meet the ocean of red in the glass, and take a gentle sip.
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