Isn't it weird how scents
Are places?
Are time?
Long lost forgotten or erased?
I took our pages and burned them
Dug a hole deep enough for both our corpses
And laid them bare to rot
Erased our memories with the best of my Blanco
Blank spaces their only remain
Yet a smear of my red lipstick
And you stain my nose
With a burning flame
A touch greatly despised by my present
Yet
Red have always been my color
So I coat it on my lips
And let it stain my scent
Consume me
And I'm floating through
Like a time traveler in a loop between worlds
No where and everywhere at once
Like a book with no ending
Its pages scattered in the forgotten ruin of the library of Alexandria
Burned to the ground by its makers.
What is scent if not destination?
YOU ARE READING
to the stars
Poesía[..] she stopped living her life cause she didn't feel like dying
