favorite.

the lines
left on my face
from the way
I slept after she left.
they're my only
road back to a point
when I felt
at ease.

so I drink.
to good nights, whispered.
before hearts
learned that melting
isn't always good.
the way we played
favorites.
in foreign rooms.
like stars were alive.
that.

is what I call
one hell of a night.

so dear.
I'll bring colors to the table.
and hand you
every shade of orange.
because, beauty
without happiness.
is like
poetry without ink.

so I'll speak
alphabet in shorthand.
letters mean nothing.
until the end.
and then - these roadmaps.
they take me back.
to here.


with this pen.