The air tasted like asphalt on my tongue.
Songs of the dead pile up against my doorstep alongside
the snow-fed orchids you left a week ago.
November flushed beneath the slices of the
tangerine sun, rippling in decayed beauty.
We were made of stardust—a rare color of
the rotten azure in the bleak sky.
A 70s song starts in the middle of nowhere.
I remember hearing it the first time you took me to your house.
As much as I swore to the baby blue peonies,
my inebriated eyes always found yours.
The bracelet you gave me on my birthday felt
heavier than anything under the sleeves.
Time has swallowed the melon sun, squeezing
its glory and chewing on its paint.
Sunflower girls always burn away for others,
slipping away in the soil of stained gardens.
Rose thorns prickled my skull, bleeding
in the dampened, lost desires.
I dreamed in the liquid moonlight,
writing notes of the blossoming decay of plastic love.
A sublime version of my dreams spilled
over the baby blue waves and peonies.
The art in us was now a black hole in my collarbones.
We were but an abstract
of perished melodies over withered violets.
A meek of dust collected in the crevices of your brain
till you planted lilacs on them.
A moon-clogged prison drowned in the death of a million stars.
A beautiful nightmare painted with trampled sunflowers.
But I saw it through the cracks of sunlight.
And it felt too real under my skin.
We bled in the folds of anguish as you looked down at me.
We were burning excruciatingly fast—hypnotized
in the blue hour—till you caught the wildfire
under the moonlight and became a dead poet's muse.
YOU ARE READING
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Poetrylike another silhouette washed in the blue of the November afterglow - a dying ache of living ... || caffeinated afterthoughts and lovers' vomit ||
