You're like a blue-sun catastrophe,
like how warm the thoughts feel in my cold blood;
star-clustered heartbeats.
I write about things that
most likely won't happen again.
I've dreamed of sending them to you
through the ashy shadows of pale summer.
The words fold the waves in your heart
into the falling stars of the withered seafoam.
But sometimes, these stars show up around my scars,
until the pain grows—slowly, slowly, slowly,
The muffled letters beat against
the silence of yellow phosphorus —
from one earth to another;
You may never know where the melody stops at.
But I know where our skyline pauses
until you replay it all night,
and leap the cold summer stars.
I write about things that grow wild with the wuthering time,
that accumulate in photo-stuffed matchboxes as our
tainted shadows grow longer.
I seal them with dry kisses
of navy faith, puddled
in magpie beats and vintage secrets.
About people, I loved and lost,
Lured and left.
Close your eyes, and it'll be over soon.
I soaked your name in poisoned starlight
and threw it deep down the crystal river.
The cherry-stained angel wings
burn and burn until you smile goodbye.
It's time to set everything free into the fire:
The bottled galaxy beats, the muffled violets,
The nestled cosmos, thick foggy tulips,
the century-old us reeked of pixie dust and maroon tendons.
We're forbidden, oh, dear — tucked into loss and life,
but mostly, butterfly blasphemy.
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A/N: It's hard to deal with heartbreaks. The narrator deserves a vote.
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||