the aftertaste in my mouth,
fleeting happiness as it goes south,
on a six-colour rainbow in the sky,
whispering hello, i love you. goodbye.
because the wait shouldn't be this long,
deeply penetrated by a crappy love song,
mocked by the bitter sweet irony of the wall,
it's coming. yes it's coming. no, not at all.
but i still see you, in the near future.
a needle and a thread. an invisible suture.
stitching up what was never really broken,
whispering, those three little words, left unspoken.