You shot at me,
And the bullet landed right where we ended up.
It ended right there,
Where you got engraved on me,
In my chest.
Perhaps this is why I tend to make metaphors of you with each cigarette,
For you are killing me too.
And as I look up at the stars,
That night
I crashed,
I do not know very well if it happened
At the constellation on your back,
Or whether it was in my favorite celestial system,
The one beginning at your navel and ending right where all my fantasies came true.
Just where you came true,
Where you made us come true.
And looking at you I not only saw you,
I saw poetry,
In verse,
Metaphors,
I saw unexplored galaxies,
A whole universe
Of which I could not be a part,
Possibly due to the black holes
That were draining me deeper and deeper.
Perhaps for the lack of oxygen in specific points,
Like my neck,
Or my waist,
Precisely where your fingers would stop
In order to descend below again,
Like a shore,
And the tide was high,
And the flag was red.
And I,
Foolish me,
I drowned.
YOU ARE READING
Could've been poetic
PoetryYou are not likely to find any love stories with a happily-ever-after ending here, Here are fragments of quotidian life in poetry format. Here are verses made out of wineglasses and sorrowful souls. Here are band-aids for the heart. Here are the rec...
