our love is messy but beautiful.
we are quiet hums of vinyls spinning on a white record player that stands from the scarlet of the wall, as we sip expensive vodka and giggle as the poison slips through our veins. we spin around the counter top in an accidental game of tag, lips clashing as teeth knock together. the alcohol paints images of distorted love in our spinning minds, a mantra of mistakes dulled into the chanting of songs we know but can't and won't sing, for memories are not to be delved into when drunk, but closed and left in a faux scrapbook to be viewed at an alternate time. we're sloppy in the way watercolors are, splattered on canvas to bleed over each other and mingle, not meant to but occuring anyways. it's a glorious dance we have, my darling, one of pointed feet and casual slides, and i fear the day the music ends, the vinyl stops, and you see that we are simply not meant to be.
the routine we perform is of shattered grace, chaste kisses hidden behind layers of bitterness and despair, when the words i promise mean nothing but a foolish affair and a gentle pain in your heart that takes root and refuses to be banished. i dream of the day when the painter finally returns to the enigma that is this painting and fixes the edges, wipes down the lines before going over them in solid black.
but for now, beloved, we will stay drunk masterpieces, dysfunctional starcrossed lovers.
we're works of art, you and i.
YOU ARE READING
thoughts ≠ sx
Poesíasomething in between a rant book and a book for a girl to ramble in. [ @clairescovers ]
