Meet Klexos: the ghost of dwelling on the past. He used to be an artist, making sonnets of sorrow last.
He's really very talented; if you were to hand him a short thread of guilt, he would probably make you a sweater.
It won't occur to you to get to know him any better, if you know what I mean. Eventually your conversations will grow to be obscene and it will be all you can do not to scream at the being.
All the two of you talk about are thing we won't be speaking of here,
not while the ears of peers are near.
He plucks a tear from your cheek and drowns you in its ocean.
He takes the steady and comforting beat of infatuation and builds a hailstorm of doubt.
There's no way out
so keep the memory alive. For should it perish, surely your friendship would cease to thrive.
Klexos will haunt you 'till the day you, too, die...
Probably alongside Opia, with the deep brown eyes.
Fireworks went off in between her knees, now she's got scars all over her thighs and feet.
She wears six sharp rings on her hands, and none of them are hers,
because boys race after her in a fleet of jet black herses. Their eyes
like headlights burning holes into the small of her back.
She's always had that 4th of july kinda feel to her;
Red eyes, white skin, blue rings around her neck.
She loves everything with fire, thus her hatred burns just as low and just as wide.
In order to be lovely, one must also be wise. But now that I think about it, Opia, you just have pretty eyes.
Rubatosis with the running shoes,
his breath tastes like muggy air and cold apple cider.
His tongue flicks around inside her.
He's in my chest like a metronome, dropping me to check that my heart still has a home in my stomach.
His words have made their way through the cracks of my half eaten gingerbread house of an ego,
spreading yellow brick roads like butter.
His long nails, dirty hands, slip my ruby red shoes off whenever they get the chance.
Everytime I hear Rubatosis and his heartbeats, I think of my brothers.
Hoping that they won't create Opias, won't follow Klexos, and won't listen too closely to heartbeats.
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PoesíaThe reckless optimist creates sunbeams With Archimedes death rays That they do believe will result in lovely sunsets. (And most everybody burnt to a crisp is not in favor of this method.)
