Old Days

I remember the good old days

like roses decorating over a grave,

a bed,

a table for two that has been recently set.

Brown blood died petals in empty halls

with shattered glass on the floor,

spider webs hanging up above.

Silence is king of them all.

Bottles of wine half drank,

cigarettes pilling in a cup.

Poems and paper flying out the door,

rhythmic beaten of a heartless soul.

yes, the old days, when being alone

was never synonym of sickness

nor of people who couldn’t cope.

when everything was a genuine projection of thousands of feelings

when there were no secrets between the moon and the sun.

I miss the old days

and it’s solitude that I once abhor,

the feeling of empty stomach and dry tongue.

the never-ending monologue in my thoughts.

sitting, unmovable waiting for her love.