Cursed poets

I thought I was Baudelaire
then you became
the Verlaine to my Rimbaud
the moth to my flame

Don't you leave my side
like cursed poets we can fly
on the wings of our love
and leave this world behind.

Take my hand 
kiss my bruises and all my scars
I see you in the shooting stars 
they're getting harder to bear -

the countless nights without you
the ones drowned in the wine I drank
which caused the uneasy steps
when I return, 

wait for me there.
Like cursed poets we can write 
lines after lines
till the ink runs out.