Tinged With Melancholy

I find it unusual
to be reading recipe books
on a Saturday morning,
9:52 AM is a memoir
of remorse and rains
I've written poems about.

Spilled coffee puddles,
mirroring sadness
and the sunrises
I've always longed for,
are an architecture of sorrow and grief.

Have you listened to the raindrops lately?
Come to think of it,
there's something prosaic
with the way they whispher.
They must have bored
those daffodils to death
that they've forgotten
to appreciate the cityscapes
I've tried so hard to forget.

Nights like those
when the street lights
illuminating the sidewalks
are the only source of pensiveness...
(Is it even possible to forget those?)

Fireworks...
Oh, how transient they are...

Trances,
it might be how I yearn for your
firework-enraptured face.

A gust of sad thoughts...
I wonder how it makes
the wistful fluffs of those dandelions dance.