// THE AUTHOR IS WRITING A STORY ABOUT TWO PEOPLE WHILE USING THEIR DIARIES, LETTERS AND ETC. THE DIARIES AND OTHER WRITINGS WERE LEFT AS A GIFT. THE AUTHOR DOESN'T KNOW THE YEAR OF THE EVENTS.
enjoy :)
we met on the verge of wilted books
i never saw you around, nor did you.
those empty lidded eyes still remind me of the eerie past where i awake, sweating and groaning with thousands of mutilated constellations and begging for him to never choose me.
we hold a brittle universe together, and the vital spark dissolves, blurring in my echoing statements as it is nothing but a ripe dandelion. you glance at me the way Aidis pierced Persephone with his somnolent orbs, ere grasping her and fleeing on the tremendous, black horses in the entrails of the earth.
do you want me to shut up?
we stay still as i finally succumb, letting you take the weighty 300 hundred pages thing that connected us. take it all. i don't mind. if anything, i have nothing but those clenching my throat promises left to suggest you, and the auld soul of yours already perceives that. yet you stay, staring. staring and making me yearn to be closer. when i fall into the burning depth that is my shriveled essence, i'll take you along.
we whisper in the midst of overflowing clutter, dispensing a second of feathered harpies whirling in the castle we call boundaries. how hastily of you to hope i get the language of your slowly beating heart, buried in the ribs of torture. no one has ever let me touch something so unsullied, so dainty. i'm terrified to touch it too. those tremulous lips are somewhat known for chewing and spitting out your worthless beliefs that make everyone feel complete.
will you let me in?
YOU ARE READING
vintage melancholy
Poetryif we meet again, you'll be a different phase. a new person i no longer know at all; absquatulate!
