Where To Find Me When I Die

Inbetween the blues of a freckled April sky, weaving verses in a language that only a dead can decipher. I will write about spring and daisies blooming by my grave and hope will visit me when I will stop breathing. But I will be happy to see her, for atleast she remembered me even if I lack a heartbeat. Alongside each stroke of paint upon my sister's priceless canvases I hide as shadows, dressed in greys. For all my life I have been a dark metaphor, fragile to touch, heavy to wear - but art finds it's immortality and the universe, now takes my sister's face and pleads for my greys to stay. Upon those lazy satin folds where my lilac perfume still linger, where my philosophies hide which I often recite to calm my stubborn heart and where I have realised that love does not always leave you heartbroken - love leaves you in poetries, which will taste like honey in peoples mouth except for yours.