Kalopsia.

the raven and cigarette smoke vapour

the words dropped through my lips,
and i never took a thing back no matter how bad and harsh the words were,
as harsh as drinking vodka from a glass in sips,
or something in an abandoned city like a czar.

and i know you said you thought my melancholy words were mellifluous flowing from my throat,
and i said your autumn green eyes were the best i'd ever seen,
i didn't think i'd be the last name written in blood on your note,
for all that i had truly been,
was comfort and desire on a bleak tuesday morning,
or a name in your phone for when you got lonely,
like when the sun is setting and the sky is becoming to become daunting,
and your home isn't homely.

it was only a late past midnight, an hour or two from dawn, maybe three.
you were on my mind when you wrote that crimson blood sucking note,
and you held a light locked key,
for the same exact thing of a boat,
that would help you travel far from this hellfire of a dock,
next to a sea of mud,
to run from all the kids who only seem to mock,
and the overflowing flood of blood,
that flew from the cries of kids buried underneath,
hidden behind the south of night,
and the raven in the middle of the night set to a thief,
holding a black rose as he took flight.
for me to say the words i never did,
that i couldn't form on a beige piece of paper,
the way you seemed to do so easily before you ran left far off to Madrid,
and the smoke fell from my lit cigarette surrounding me in a vapour.