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Current mood:  pensive
I call you malice
You name me perdition
Purgatory is only transition
He is a rebel, she is a writer
His fist in the air
leads the people to freedom
she incites them to riot through words
sprung from hands meant for love
He is summer wheat
she is crimson and silk
together their love is strawberry shortcake
brief and sweet with a crisp not entirely unenjoyed aftertaste
he tells people they first talked across a window table in the coffee shop
she says they met waiting in line at the bank, whispers, marble, and steel
nobody knows quite how these things begin
today she tells me her father died of emphzyma
(a curse that eats away from within)
I stop smoking for her and no more can I sit on the patio under stars
pretending the vaporous spiderwebs are pieces of my soul
slipping away on the wind.
when words don't fit her needs she makes them up
tortures, nurtures, melds, and transforms
letters, phrases, grammar, terms.
English is her second language, there is no name yet for her first
Her dialect is tears falling from warm blood hued lips
these pained expressions burn my eyes
brush past and feel her face
beneath my fingertips
I stopped smoking for her but in the morning sometimes I still cough up blood on the porcelain
maybe something is broken, leaking inside
 | Currently listening:
Rareform
By After the Burial
Release date: 2008-07-29 |
|
06:20 PM
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