Someday, his touch would turn cold,
Right at the very patches,
Where it used to cause infernoes,
Even a gentle fluttering caress.
Someday, his words would stab,
Where they used to stroke now;
The kiss from the very lips,
Would burn more than acid.
Someday, his eyes would grow hard,
The lingering gazes of today,
Would pelt more painfully than onyx,
And go blind with nonchalance.
One day, when this day approaches,
Hopefully i would be looking back;
Detached as a statue, or the Moon,
Wry smile as one would a bad play.
Copyright © 2016 thearcticstar
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