"i love what you do to my head when you pull me upstairs and you push me to bed. i love what you do to my head."
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All I have now are rosemary scented bedsheets where you used to lay and your towel still hung up by the bathroom door. I've got a mouthful of concrete, lungs filled with dried blood, and everything feels hazy when I bleed out, I can barely see my hands nestled before me in my lap. A kaleidoscope of your porcelain skin, the heart-shaped birth mark on your shoulder, and your stars for eyes in my retinas as I stare bleakly up at the ceiling and fall out.
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"How long will it be until October?" I could remember you asking me as you wanted to swim right through september in a brisk ocean of memories soaked in your hair and wreathed in your throat. You hated this month and you would always count down the days until you'd reach the shore again and could finally sink your toes in the sand. I didn't have the answer, all I knew was that I had claw marks dug into the surface of my skin on my back from your grip as you tried to use me to bring your head above water again.
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How am I to manage bringing you to shore, when I'm barely coming up from the riptides myself? I was your life-jacket and the more you came back to shore, I had a throat full of salt water that burned my lungs each time I tried to breathe. I know that you're an angel, but your halo stings and prods just like your devil horns anyway, the thorns in your garden pricked my ankles when sauntering blindly throughout, and the moon still warms me about potions on your tongue.
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If I'm given a token of your beauty and lustful rage, say I'm blessed with a curse to have my breaths stolen by the only poisonous flower in the garden.
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