The memories scattered on the bed are
swollen in contempt and misery—
How plundered they look in the rolling rain.
The sweetness of rumble rots
my teeth; we're peeled off charcoal desires and destruction.
Anguish decays through your bones:
A neon-imprinted rumor that caused it all.
The dream melts in the distant calls.
Lily, I miss you—I know what I did was worse
than anything in my life; but what
was worse than this is me.
Perhaps, another stolen kiss or trashed lie
could heal the depth of mauve scars and wine-red eyes.
Do you remember our little corner, love?
A mess of tangled arms and beaming secrets stirred in frozen lasagna.
The room's no longer visited.
Wrinkled sheets and moth-eaten books.
A dollar bill between the pages—our Christmas shopping.
Books with light brown words and spaces of flowers and infinity.
A torn last page with our Polaroid picture on it.
The day lavenders started despising lilies.
We left it when we were sixteen. Too young, I know.
But Lily, you know this isn't true—none of these.
The sheen of your tears twists my heart;
I miss those star secrets we used to share —
Lover's names and champagne problems.
A thin, misty Sunday melody still plays—out of tune
through thick-coated runaway and self-decided isolation.
The foliage tears through your numb eyes.
I wonder if you'd show up again
and kiss me slow—forgetting this stupid mess.
My room feels cold without you,
Empty like the spaces between those grey-brown words.
What if I showed up at your door
one steel Saturday morning and said you
"Lily, everything was wrong back then—I want you."
Will you let me have your heart?
Will you forgive my 16-year-old self?
I wish I could replay my life like your favorite song
Under the rotten away grasses and your pink cardigan.
Dumb consonants mess up your mind in vodka and cigars.
Violets bleed in the nipping frost of December.
I know it was wrong, and our hells were aflame,
but, Lily, it was another summer mistake, listen.
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||