he stood inches from the pitch black sky stripped of stars on concrete rooftop as fragile as glass. you stood inches from him, his jet black hair had grown passed the nape of his neck and his eyes shimmering bluer than the arctic horizon, reflected the covet of fabricated stars on land
— 'cause he was made of nuclear fusion.
apollo was him as his gravity pulling you so ruthlessly, until the sun dripping from his lips to your skin, his veins scorched by the intensity of his very own existence.
he should bleed blue, yet he bled the sun's acid. Or maybe he was no sun, that it was him who stole the stars from the night sky and hid them inside his beating heart.
he might not drown the stars under his azure eyes,
but he certainly had drown you.
and you let him, cause his touch had burned you so ambitiously, so overwhelmingly, it split apart your own misty vermillion horizon, drenched you in the rainfall of iridescent florets as blue tulips grew under your ribcage.
// --- or maybe you were the one who stole
the sunshine inside his veins after all
YOU ARE READING
THE LOVERS
Poetryboth weep for the thorns in their skulls when the sun is killed and summer has gone by and the rain is acidic. tragic is they are mortals, and mortals are made of greed and unholy prayers.
