Prena Poetry

I know, I shouldn’t.

But I will still say that, I still taste you in my morning coffee and feel your kisses in the midsummer’s dreams. I will still say that, your presence never left my skin and this lips never forgot the taste you left in my tongue; bitter but still so sweet in the end. Because darling, you were an art. So strong and so beautiful, that made the canvas irrelevant of the colours it showed under the sun.

But you were an incomplete art that broke the painter’s heart. And sadly washed away the euphoria of rainbows nestled upon then brush.

You were the art.

To whom I have my soul but could never complete.

And then. I forgot what the dab of blue ink even resembled in the coarse white sheet. I forgot what the artist left in the canvas and what the thief took from the wooden easel.

But I will still say that, I miss you. And ask you to stay, even if you are a billion skies away or a thousand raindrops farther from the sun.