My kind of days are winter days,
And for nights, I crush on the decembered moon,
Because there are no fireflies here,
No stars to fall in love with.
Just an eloquent vacancy,
And a fireplace.
A fireplace that breathes in grief-stricken flames,
A fireplace with embers turned blue.
Abagail downstairs, swears I’m a madman,
So does the inn keeper who lives across the meadow.
But the curtains and the candles,
The bourbon and the piano,
Seem to understand,
Understand that my summer days,
They’re far more tangible than others will ever know.
That the blue brush strokes on my canvas,
Aren’t an extension of my melancholy.
Because on love-drunk nights,
These smudges permanently haunt the edges of my canvas,
Dancing circles around me,
Candid vertigo of the sunny days,
And you become real. Realer than ever.
I know not much of music, and notes,
But my heart is an ardent musician.
It whispers harmonies to the beat of your footsteps,
Thudding melodies into my veins.
And this sudden gush of blood,
Leaks through my fingertips and spills on the piano.
And Oh! The frenzy I unleash into the blues;
You just chuckle by the attic,
And the scent of you,
Just lurks about the folds of a pinwheel,
And the flutters just resonate with the air.
I hate how you leave on the daily, at the break of dawn,
I hate how you leave me alone, at the break of dawn.
Because even though my rhythm is happy,
And your blues not blue much;
My arms are wary, my songs are numbered,
Drunk are my eyes and my constant blood.