First, he exhales an abstract I love you, and I can nearly hear the frost blooming from his throat.

   A love like ours is one that is meant to be seen, not lived. Still, I try to make iced tea out of his

       Lemons. It is so hard to think, to foresee; I cannot hear myself over this raging silence. He

           L E A V E S me with my thoughts, his bare back turned away from me, and his heart beating,

           Wilting alone. Why do I always want the sun? I love you, he says, a little louder.

               Is he trying to convince me or himself? Although it takes two to tango, we do

                  Not dance together. We do not try to give birth to new memories in this

                     Dying love. Or hearts do not find the other's pulse, like old times.

                    I can feel his soul shatter before the tears fall. 

                     I wonder if I had already written our eulogy in my mind, or if the words just flowed from me naturally.

                           He doesn't give up easily. I can see thunderstorms form just behind his teeth.

He screams hallow threats and writhes in pain, unable to understand the most deadly defect: unrequited love.

        Maybe we were never meant for each other anyways. If that's true, why does his scent still linger in the back of my mind?

            How ironic for this all to happen in autumn, the season of letting go before it all turns to dust and returns to the same soil in which it sprung from.

(a/n: i wrote this on my computer and i didnt realize until i looked at my phone that this looks nothing like an acrostic poem soo like it helps if you read this from a computer just saying [talking about the last stanza])