his amaurotic soul reckoned prosaic pain and star-crossed love bizarre, yet he sought to endure the peculiar notion he had read numerous novels about. his filched youth finite to a frigid mansion where the enigmatic faces and crimson walls failed to bear any holy hysteria.
oh, so poor man was but uncanny to the sublime manners in which love bloomed and ached behind closed doors. how it chaotically combat the deafening storms to stay above deranged waters drunk on blood oranges and confessed consonants. how it rarely blazed underneath kaleidoscopic wounds and slaughtered suns.
hence, the unprecedented years seasoned with bubblegum springs stripped from walks through cherry blossom fields, cryptic summers by the beach as chlorine breezes would urge his caramel-dipped hair to sway, or bleak winters where he would perch alongside sultry bonfires neighboring tumultuous chatter and lemonized laughter.
rather, he cherished the autumn falls; vacant burials of serene summers- his papa would banter over a cup of oolong tea. no florals to bloom extending elegance to the pervaded streets. the townsman never desired to smile with their toy hearts and plastic eyeballs- he wanted to stab a bloody splinter into them. just idiosyncratic and out of the puzzle, like his mama said he was- bewitching to their witless ribs.
he was convinced that love was but a glorious trap over-flowed with dainty deceit and vodka lies.
he was nubile and stigmatized enough to believe so.
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guava achings ✓
Poetrybanquets of succulent peaches in tin cans and pretty boys with passionflowers blossoming from their cuticles.
