(no subject)
a poem for xx
You are a blurry photocopy of the boy I remember, the one who could touch with fire and weave stars on the ceiling. I distinctly remember holding your heart in my hands at this season last year, squeezing slightly so as to only make you aware of my presence. You passed through me with ghostly effervescence. The king may have worn a paper crown of indifference that day, but the black queen may still have a trump card to play; time passes, but longing endures as hatred matures.
(See Figure A, below.)
A table with three chairs. Splayed across the table is an ultimatum written in fresh blood. I sit at the edge, toying with your heart once again. This time, I tilt my head back, close my eyes, and swallow.
I always wanted you inside of me.
You are a blurry photocopy of the boy I remember, the one who could touch with fire and weave stars on the ceiling. I distinctly remember holding your heart in my hands at this season last year, squeezing slightly so as to only make you aware of my presence. You passed through me with ghostly effervescence. The king may have worn a paper crown of indifference that day, but the black queen may still have a trump card to play; time passes, but longing endures as hatred matures.
(See Figure A, below.)
A table with three chairs. Splayed across the table is an ultimatum written in fresh blood. I sit at the edge, toying with your heart once again. This time, I tilt my head back, close my eyes, and swallow.
I always wanted you inside of me.