I have a confession.
In the last 23 days, 5 hours, and 22 minutes since I saw you last, I have thought of nothing but rot and decay.
Allow me to elaborate.
I've embossed your facial features into my frontal lobe with rather violent determination because I cannot sleep at night knowing that there are constellations living on your cheekbones that nobody but myself has discovered.
I've searched every vowel and consonant that spells out your name for clarification of my earth shattering attraction to your energy.
I have come to hate the letter K.
It is much too harsh and contrasts deeply with the softness of your voice.
I think of that wretched letter carved into your headstone and I am certain that I will never visit your grave.
But that isn't the rot and decay.
The rot is my heart which beat 87 times per minute the last time you put your arm around my shaking shoulders.
The decay is my mind which has stopped counting whenever you are present.
YOU ARE READING
Academy Of American Bullshit
شِعرCollection of poetry, parts of short stories, and the occasional rant written by an artist who is angrier than she'd like to admit.
