it's a cold and clamorous thursday night.
the meadow is fast asleep and so are you,
with your back contused and still against the dark mud, catching a breath or two
from all my smothering tenderness
that i promised i'd keep fettered.
the pale, unblemished night sky is furious
because i'm not setting the sweet,
sweet moon on fire anymore,
because i'm not the arsonist
veiled as a kind lover anymore.
i'm polluting every inch of your warm,olive skin instead, marking every pearl white bone in the heaven of your body with all the dizzying madness that i've kept hidden
in my charred lungs for so long.
you said that my insanity tastes ethereal
so now i'm dissecting every grain of my sorry skin,
to excavate all that's left of my black blood.
god, your teeth look so beautiful
as they bite into my woes;
i know i shouldn't paint you in my misery
and just let you suffer in peace instead,but
what's serenity without the burden of intimacy?
&
what's serenity without the burden of affection?
peace wouldn't quench our thirst half as good
if it comes too easy.