When the evening sun turns all bloody, The hero on screen mutters, “True love doesn’t exist.” They say, “You’re the one I want to die with... Spend forever with... When I close my eyes, you’re the only one I see.” So romantic, they are. But I’ve closed my eyes a thousand times... And all I ever see is the afterglow— fading, quiet, unresolved. But when the bleeding sun bleeds no more, When silence spreads like mist, I remember... Your fingers, gently parting my weary hair, The way you’d tuck the blanket over me On cold, unkind nights. How you’d offer me the last piece of chocolate, Though the box was still full— as if the gesture alone had meaning. Your breasts—not seduction, But a place to die peacefully, Head resting there as though war were done, As though I were a child in a cradle, Eyes locked on a mysterious wind chime, Swaying with secrets. Your arms—fortresses from the tales of old. Your scolding face, the one even cigarettes feared. The tight-l...