Our love story was like an indie film played at dawn. Carmel dulcet subtitles plays a silken tone of melodious metanoia, from our unspoken words. My coconut lipgloss drips onto the cassette, that plays soft jazz in the night's divinity. Oh how we used to press crushed lilacs against bad romance novels that didn't reflect our own whispers of nothings in a bowl of drunken roses. Nectar ponds filled with strawberry hymns couldn't show the reflection of our glazed romanticism, but the angels cry blood, as our love is a beaut cry of despair. Taboo purity filled our souls, as a thousand suns bathed in our obsidian lotus pond of an everlasting afterlife. The reminisce of our love embroidered in sea foam laced in emeralds and a thousand dreams of desolation. (Oh love, how we didn't know the coral reef was dying as we spoke.) But alas our love was a suicide that left our hearts still beating. The ichor of irreplaceable neglected visions that we called love.
