i. drunk love talk over
quiet phone lines,
admitting everything and
forgetting regret for a
single moment while my voice is
honey-thick and storm-cloud heavy
with this palpable want,
the static on the line infects me,
creating memories in my mind
of times I could read between lines,
before they were skewed; now,
I'm interpreting blind:
smog filters my eyes like the
cigarettes delicately, precariously
balanced on the curl of your lips
like I used to but I found that
you let go if they fall;
I fell so hard.
ii. a lost dreamer
wishing on fragile stars
that have long past burned out,
desperate for my smouldering
ember sisters in the sky to hear me,
to prove that even if the very
breath of you extinguishes me,
I will not die:
your oxygen is a
poison and a blessing,
guiding me along the tightrope
and I'm clinging to the improbable
(an atheist praying)
that stars can revive, survive the
black hole of a human mind and
tick-tock forever on but I know
it is only a matter of time
because we are grenades,
counting down.
iii. an expression of hate
who writes love poetry on
pale pages that are as split as my pretty, little wrists
for you, a girl who told me
that she didn't understand poetry
and I am as empty as
the cage in my ribs because
I didn't see the point in
trapping this humming bird heart,
and now, it is wild and free,
singing a song only in your presence;
you have caught me.
YOU ARE READING
Roses, Cherry Vodka & Her Perfume
PoesiaA collection of (almost) love poetry inspired by my beautiful and exotic princess of a muse. (Please please please read and leave comments, I need some critics because I wanna give this to her as a present)
