The Aftertaste of Sorrow

Man walking away

I carry you around with me,

A pebble in my shoe,

A backpack heavy with regrets,

An invisible blade stuck in my chest,

A blood stain on my conscience,

A wound in my memory,

Through which images and scenes seep through,

Remnants from better times,

When you and me,

The two of us,

Shared a romantic friendship,

When you, not by saying yes,

But by not saying no,

Kept me coming back to you,

And I, like a giddy moth around a dazzling flame,

Spun dizzily around you,

Tickling you with the current from my wings,

Flying close but not too close,

Lest I should burn.

18 thoughts on “The Aftertaste of Sorrow

  1. Your poem describes past love exactly. The good news that we learn is that the pebble eventually falls out, the backpack lightens, and the wound scars if you tear out the knife. The hardest part is getting rid of the knife.

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