The sun rose the wrong way up,
and I'll forget to remember this later.
The stars whispered us encouragement as an
exodus of pain happened in seconds that night.
We were nothing left but giddy happiness.
His slurred tongue reminds me of venom.
His hiss and changing thought, the stars
brighter than before, too bright to taste.
It shines of a color not yet created,
A lost dream, a paper drifting in space.
In the restuarant he asks for soup again.
His face glows with a certain secret, a type
that could kill the world in a step, a drop of
delicious poison. They didn't have any soup left.
And when we're surrounded by our
darkness and skin, and the air is heavy
and smells of sweet cinnamon, that drags down
a weight, I remember he's barely anything to me.
But after my fingers weave through his hair, and his
fingers leave bruises on my thighs, it's three days later
and suddenly I'm yelling with a rich pain as he paces
back and forth,
because we did it again. Our mechanical hearts
told us to, and we fell in love again.
YOU ARE READING
Noyadé
PuisiA series of small works: finished works and unfinished scraps and sober thoughts and inebriated words and drunk minds and me. All of me in here.
