I lost myself somewhere amongst his breathing.
We were lovers, resting on aquamarine arms of the sea.
He spoke in hints while I sketched may-flowers on his face.
We listened to the silent accord of the damp, December air,
and hummed love-songs to the lemon-skinned trees.
His words were fuelled with gun-powder,
causing anger to speak through winds,
and slam leaves to the ground. Wing-beats
of green and yellow, painted a kaleidoscope
while I coughed up clouds that began to sweat.
Music was written on his tongue, a jazzy
soprano on the tip, rolling down to the curves
in his neck that sent my mind into vertigo.
The sun always humiliated me and I do not know
why I thought yesterday would have been different.
I should have known that sage-green silhouettes
would eventually play with the nervousness in my hands.
There was no room for a flower in his Antartica;I embraced and cursed the torrent of snowdrifts in his words.
To him, I was just an old piece of poetry, written in clichés.
Honorable mention
Bronze trophy winner
Adding your comment:
I love your poetry and hate to ever miss out on it
This was amazing, bookmarking. 
Peace, xx Cyn 
