i watched your shadow
as you blocked the light
coming from the transparent windows around us,
i wasn't sure if it was your fingers
—or your sweater's zippers
that pulled my hair
when you walked straight to my left

and when you passed again to my right,
i felt a cold, distant zephyr
as you rushed away,
like a stranger whom i've never met,
you did not look back
—or even stayed for a second
like you would always do.

sitting quiet at the corner,
my sides became brighter
as you marched towards my chair,
you made me aware
—with how you swayed the strings of your jacket,
and how their knots at the end tapped my skin
—that you were there

it happened on the 8th of eight,
but i'm still bearing the weight of guilt,
when you left a mark in my head
that i will never forget
—you used the word, expensive, love
asking me if i want you to love me

i know i felt excited;
i know you didn't mean it,
i waited for you to take it back but you didn't,
so i made you take back your words,
and there, finally, you said "it was a joke",
somehow, i felt disappointed

the most magical,
yet the most painful dream i had:
𝘺𝘰𝘶.

maybe it was the thing called “love”
—like a flower
that grew well;
surely, it won’t last forever

day 88, and i am still in love:

with his hair,
that becomes a bit curly and wet
when he feels stressed;

with his eyes,
like hazelnuts under those glasses reflecting light from the outside;

with his dad jokes,
that make me laugh even though they’re all lame most of the time;

it’s the 88th day,
and i am still, falling for you.

you’re an arsonist
—you never failed to burn my whole;
always setting fire on my body and soul

indeed an arsonist
—you turned me into a thin smoke,
i disappeared; you never looked