Silent Summer and Entwined Flames

I ran out of you as summer turned its back to April, and everything has been walking faster than the mountain fireflies and the great, unstoppable time ever since. I laid my body on the coffin of our love and thought about the sun; its piercing tone, its sorrowful laughter—maybe the sun never meant to hurt anyone. Maybe its love was just too much to be held with bare hands, and not everyone has superpower gloves to prevent the burning heat from biting their skin.

You told me that I always reminded you of the sun.

I wish that you could just worded it simpler so that I would know that I was hurting you. I was never as smart as you always were. I look for every answer of my questions in your churning eyes like all the women before us did to the moon, sitting on the balcony the whole night and wishing for a sleep. But you were not the moon to me—you would still be the brightest even if I walked out of the room and closed the door tight enough that my overwhelming love couldn’t find its way to reach your heart.

And you never let me leave. Not even until the flesh of your palms started to rot for holding my burning devotion for too long. I had no idea about the risk of it all before it licked every inch of our room, like a hungry flame, and left me alone with your bones. Flowers grow through the gaps between your ribcages, forming a field of fraudulent stars swimming under my feet. You have turned yourself into everything for me. But the only thing I could do is to listen to the cries of summer and to burn every form of you down again and again and again.