you are an almost lover then almost heartache 

you can practically summer then return to self 
inosculated twin flames that only know their flesh
I think you remembered to spare me some grief for the living 
when you spared me of you
and if you were a gentler god you'd not leave me on the horizon of Saudade
uncertain of anything but you
I am swollen with your eulogy.
And if October leaves me empty-handed, I hope it spares my bed
love struck with dreams
and the yearn for a life in the shape of you
gentler than when you spared me of you.
I don't know what crafts an inconspicuous religion in the impreciseness of your language better.
The mind of a poet or heart of a musing
It's always the way you scatter your poetries in my dream
downwards an empty stream
as I try my best to snap out of it just to pen the words down
to form a flawed poem but I don't seem to remember any of them
maybe it has become a metaphor for my yearning 
trying to reconcile the you, that's unfamiliar to me, with the you that makes itself at home
like the ladybug that crawls into my ribcage 
at the crux
I'm just a museum of musings waiting to be deciphered and embodied
and you're a poem beyond my existence 
and in the simplest form, it all comes down to a love song
flawed but it's there for you and you and only you.

.    .    .