you were scabbed with the bitter breathe that december carries, and perhaps that sounds better than it truly is. the sun spills through your window in such a way that your dark as night eyes look like a desirable honey that drips from a bees hive- so enticing i feel like a fly. something mindless, something minuscule, something foolish and easy to trap. you're dressed like a devil who eats feelings for lunch, and your lips are pulled tight because your tongue is full of secrets ready to spill against your cream filled coffee. you never tell me about the foreign chapped lips against your skin; the steam continues to rise, the sugar continues to melt.
despite your secrecy and hands still dirty from last nights sin, you still put yours in mine, and that is where you discover the fissures of what is the shell of you and how much your bones ache of the night before. but still, i let it happen-till my blood feels like tar and my skin is sticky with the residue of your other lover. because in trade, your lips cradle the snows reflection of the golden sunshine like the way a crescent moon cradles the heavy darkness of night, and im given this sort of peace that makes the heart hope. even without confessing anything, you're holy to me, still, with your messy hair spread across the dirty cracked leather of the red chair you lay on, and a heart that carries all the winter wind that has ever kissed your skin.
you cut my heart out with the sharp and jagged cracks in your character. all i hope is that, for you, my darling, my heart tastes like ichor and ambrosia bitter enough to stain the lips of all you have ever kissed, and leave you with the savour of heartache.
- completely revamped this poem because I didn't like it... now i still don't know if I like it or if i like it even less!
