he knows so much.
i tell him too much
but i just can't help it
when he has a voice like nicotine perfume
or like hanahaki morphine flowers
filling my lungs,
emptying my heart.
lord, how does he do it?
did you know
he speaks deep, rich cello preludes?
i live for the songs he tells me about every morning
-the ones he, himself, lives for in the way he sings
or does that thing with his hands.
i didn't until now.
god, when he looks at me like that,
like he could love me,
he's singing melodies of half truths
and calling me names that aren't mine.
i let him do it because when he talks to me like that,
i hear waltzes and i'm okay.
i'm okay.
his every word reeks of petrol.
gasoline's flooding my senses,
it's haunting every corner
of the dingy, dilapidated streets
while cars i'll never remember race past.
cement is thick but
this cracked road to heaven won't
fit the both of us.
mother of god, forgive me!
i love the way he says my name.
isaiah. isaiah. isaiah. isaiah. isaiah. isaiah.
he sounds like nostalgia dipped in dark chocolate
especially when he talks to me in summer sunsets
at twilight as winds whisper into my hair.
it isn't a sin to worship him
like a god on the verge of death.
he knows it all
and it doesn't matter anymore.
he talks and i'm seeing his divine countenance!
i adore those hands
even though they are everywhere except in mine
because i hate his music and his summers and
i love his drugs and his road trips to nowhere.
oh christ, what have i done?
YOU ARE READING
AN ESCAPIST'S REPRESSED DESIRE | poetry
Poesíahe said he wanted to see me dressed all in white but now he's the one rotting in it. cover by @satinebones
