Sorrow-Colored Breath.
I can handle this lateral sting, but I can't decide if you're worth the parallel lacerations in the lavender hearts of my rotting ancestors. I'll never know if the angels in heaven are trumpeting their dissatisfaction in the form of a resnant Bb unless this roller coaster tears such rose-tinted glasses from my earth-bound eyes. I care explicitly for you, I do, and I'll so readily fall to my grey-stained knees and implore your forgiveness, but I'll never be the Paolo to your Francesca or The Blue Djinn of Babylon for your tortured Nebuchdnezzer.
What can I say to your vibrating leather irises? I'm sorry? I can apologize up and down, but I can't appreciate your passionate and permeating presence. I get it. You're a pint of Vanilla Bean on the worst day of my life, but honey, I'm no closer to properly digesting this Tesla Coil in my stomach when you're around as I am when you're away. And I can tell you I've never been comfortable with the great bony monoliths I call front teeth and you can assure me they're charming, but true love is out of the question.
So accept the virgin vermilion of my indecision or leave me now, but I can't just pick up and wipe the dust from the box where I've sealed these fever-being feelings for you. Because after sixty thousand seconds in my attic, my heart sits in the prior husk of these charcoal-tinged Chuck Taylors in a cage of calcium. You're not the first ache in the home of my absent blood-pumped longing, but I can only be so forthwith with my fragile tr(u/y)st with memory of the pain of ripped-off band-aids so fresh in my heather-hued humerus.
I won't be hurt again.
In the swirling haze of my psychedelic bed sheets, I'll hold you until the sun shines or something better comes along. At this point, you can wreck or rectify my stinging cat-scratched chest with your tongue and fingertips. Either way, I'll sing in my shower with regrets.
Somewhere, someone is dying, and in that instant-- their soul is tanglible, like a slick ball of wet cellophane in my throat, choking the love out of me and I hear an oboe.
What can I say to your vibrating leather irises? I'm sorry? I can apologize up and down, but I can't appreciate your passionate and permeating presence. I get it. You're a pint of Vanilla Bean on the worst day of my life, but honey, I'm no closer to properly digesting this Tesla Coil in my stomach when you're around as I am when you're away. And I can tell you I've never been comfortable with the great bony monoliths I call front teeth and you can assure me they're charming, but true love is out of the question.
So accept the virgin vermilion of my indecision or leave me now, but I can't just pick up and wipe the dust from the box where I've sealed these fever-being feelings for you. Because after sixty thousand seconds in my attic, my heart sits in the prior husk of these charcoal-tinged Chuck Taylors in a cage of calcium. You're not the first ache in the home of my absent blood-pumped longing, but I can only be so forthwith with my fragile tr(u/y)st with memory of the pain of ripped-off band-aids so fresh in my heather-hued humerus.
I won't be hurt again.
In the swirling haze of my psychedelic bed sheets, I'll hold you until the sun shines or something better comes along. At this point, you can wreck or rectify my stinging cat-scratched chest with your tongue and fingertips. Either way, I'll sing in my shower with regrets.
Somewhere, someone is dying, and in that instant-- their soul is tanglible, like a slick ball of wet cellophane in my throat, choking the love out of me and I hear an oboe.