Your love is nothing more than a gossip.
Only if it had a voice could it have spoken you millions of dollars inallurements and sins.
It would enchant you like a foreshadowing of gold bars and pleasures.
It would sing you perfumes that would disperse in your throat as it rotted in your tongue, spoilin the lip of your wounds until they smelled of my name, dwell in my mirrors reflecting the strength of the ruins scribbling faith on your galeryite skin.
Your love would spread like unfurled wings presented ahead of the sun, only to be burned by its flame sand shadows dressed in gray, just like a rumor announced before the truth stitched on your mouth.
The painters would eventually find out about it and color me blue.
The scribblers would display me in a museum and translate your love into words; complicated like an abstract designed to confuse.
Your love is nothing more than a rumor.
I could have ended up with you if it had feet to storm out of your sleeves and hands to chain me in your non-existent dreams.
I could have heard your life before you breathed and fabricated your emotions exactly how I wanted them to be.
However, your love is a gossip did not appear in my feed.
My fingers caught your intention before your words arrived; an uncertaincaress of defiance with the intent to hurt.
Your love is nothing more than a rumor spread to confuse an intention in order to distract a message in order to boast a bottle of vodka in the trash.
