You said I was your only, but surely it was merely for the comfort of a lonely. You playedme your instruments in tape recordings, wondering what might be the feeling if I played themwith you.
Sinned on the line with our hearts on the highline; raindrops on our faces when we'veburned so much and lost count. Your mind was old while your heart was young, every time wedid it, in no way was it a crime. You would casually play and I would dance alongside it. Dusktill dawn, we lived in exile and it became my favorite crime.
We were something, you suppose? Soap in our body, hair and teeth, and things we did insecrecy with the unclothed murals we meticulously painted and curated, would you miss? Sungmy favorite songs within my darkest and uncoated dallying swears, a bittersweet reminiscencethat I'd hold.
But what is it to hold, when the story of us is no longer to be told.
YOU ARE READING
UNCENSORED (For Publication)
PoetryThis book is all about betrayals on friendships, invalid feelings, untangled fates, and taciturn and morose secrets. This is currently in the state of revision.
