Your poem?

Your poem?
Your poem? Are you sure?
No, it’s just that
I’ve heard this story before.

I’ve heard this story from
The wise lady who comes in my dreams
She says how she’ll appear in yours
And how you’ll write a poem about “this”

She says how she loves how
Before summer storms, the sky turns grey,
And how she can’t tell apart the sky and my eyes,
And she says how, because of this, you fall apart every night.

She says how she waits for
The roses to rot and dry
And how it reminds her of my skin
And how this makes, not her but you, cry.

She says how beautiful
The dying sailor looks when he drowns in the sea
And how it reminds her of how I drown in my tears
And how much this makes you want to be with me.

She says how the sun sets
And cheats on the sky with the oceans
And how this makes her think of you and me,
And how it makes you want to touch the wires of poles that say”440 volts – Caution!”

She says how she will be telling you this story tonight
And how you’ll cut your veins right after,
And in between the two
You’ll write a poem on my favourite white dress
And end it with “bye love. i miss your laughter”

And she says how the next day I’ll open my wardrobe
And look for my white dress for the 27th date of this month
And how the dress will get bloody and stinky,
After I read your poem
After I bleed, crawl and grunt.

And she says how when we’ll meet again
You’ll call this poem yours
And she says how I’ll ask you twice
“Your poem?
Your poem?
Are you sure?”