You are the skyscrapers,
which I think I’m as tall as,
the flyover,
above me and us all,
and the wet asphalt
with the reflection of streetlights
like the freckles splattered around your grin.

You said burning bridges
was needed sometimes
and I guess this entire civilisation
(hopeless without you)
caught on fire too.

I’m an honest writer,
I write what I think,
and so I write about you
more than I probably should

with stained fingertips
from your colours in my
chest (that I tried to keep quiet)
now bursting out of the-

seems
I was too bright
and burnt candles
to this ash
and that the only thing
left is the change I made,
(the art you made)
to try and keep up with
you.

© lilac_of_hope