Indigo

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I could write a poem about you
I could write ten
I could write a hundred poems about the sound of your voice,
Or the feel of your arms around me

You knew you'd end up here eventually, didn't you?
After all, you know everything.
The start, the end, the in-betweens.
You know everything, except how deeply your fanged smile punctures my heart.
And how hot the feel of your gentle hands brands my skin.

Irradiated red-hot heat tans my face,
You're baking me in your melancholy light.
The moonlight lain deep in your coffee-bean eyes.
I paint this contour line drawing of you, my hands stained with blackish-red ink,
My canvas torn straight through by my sharp calligraphy pen.

You show me your horns, flicking your pitchfork tongue,
"You're dancing with a devil, don't you know?"
I flap my feathered wings and cup your face.
"I just know this devil was once my God's most beautiful Angel,
And I intend to find Him again."

A dissonant hymn enters soft,
Harpist tears flow down each string.
You're flighty at the thought of getting tangled in my heartstrings.
I'm dizzied by the racing thoughts of how to convince the timeline not to split.
Every word seems dangerously close to cataclysmic.

The deepest shades of that purpley-blue.
The very nature of the midnight sky, vast, endless and unknown.
My astronaut heart wants to travel your indigo, see all the stars and lay hand down on their surface.
I want to collect moon rocks and dust,
See and love every angle of your infinite, cosmic mind.

Your sweet words are made of molasses and honey
I'm sure of it, because they soothe my sick and pain-ridden heart.
Tell me one more time that I'm not to be lost to the winds of convenient distraction
Tell me somewhere between snake eyes and bloodied fangs,
Tell me you see what I see, too.

Tell me I'm worth the risk of crashing and burning.

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