melancholy

I Didn’t Think This Was the End

Artwork by Joline Kwakkembos via AXS Art

I never thought of giving names
and tastes
to every month.
Everything is commonly drenched in salt
in ashy bits of smoke lazily rolling on the tongue
In the rusty remains of ethanol
which decomposed
to a degree that even its six hydrogens and oxygen
are no longer mashed together
But burn solitary behind the eyes
Leaving behind nasty aches
which make you feel sick
the following day.

I never thought March could look
like hazy colourful spots
twirling before you in fast motions
or that Aprils could smell
like sweat infused chairs where
lots of heads laid and even more hearts raced.

Most of all
I never thought of July
as tasting of plastic bottled wine
as sounding like the ticking of a needle touching the scratchy surface of a vinyl
as feeling like skin which smells like freedom
and chances
and semicolons
when all it brought before were absolute periods.

—

Poem by Simona I.

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