bangbang...you shot me down

She spends her time dreaming

of skies-on-fire and

midnights with shooting stars

and hearts on fogged windows

and late night calls with

puffs of steam coming from the

red coffee mug she so liked

and fields of sunflowers

and i-love-yous whispered

in the dark to her and

only to her

and...

But the truth is:

the skies are an ashen grey

and beauty is short-lived,

the stars no exception to that.

the hearts are full of cracks

and sharp edges and they

make her bleedbleedbleed.

she has forgotten the

number she wants to reach

and the coffee has gone cold

and the mug is smashed

into threethousandfortyeight

crimson pieces on the floor.

the flowers are all dead

and the heart beneath her

crrk-crackling ribcage doesn't

go thumpthumpthump anymore

and no precious three syllables

could bring it back because

she doesn't believe in lies.

not anymore.