Rose gold lips

A beating flame of gold and poetry

in the pieces that belong to you,

like an obvious cliché –

the truth is written behind the sad days,

bizarre flashes of weighted reflections

left by bookmarks sliced into greeting cards,

reading sonnets to the stars,

making wishes to hold down that red balloon,

I know what drowning alone feels like,

charming lady, it isn’t a metaphor.


Slowly all the thoughts start to feel swayed,

loving the purity of the persistence,

the obligation to burn in rain,

the subdued shades of spring,

radiating rumors of composure,

writing you in every prose that requires

to break near an empty syringe…

gone like – a flash.


Apparently, shadows hold each other

when no one is looking and the moon is out,

just burning at the mouth of a shooting star,

remembering the thought of you

as the perfect definition for bittersweet…

it was always enough.

I am sort of stuck lately,

like iced,

but I’ve built an immunity

towards those little absorbents.


I should have been asleep by now,

instead I am writing about you.

Picking up from where we left off,

I almost died.

It didn’t hurt,

it just happened ever so quickly.

He saved me.

We are such fragile beings,

beneath the interiors of who we are,

I have been trying to piece myself together

and it’s just a little hard these days.

It sucks when 7 pills give the effect of 1.

It sucks when you can’t breathe.

It sucks when you smother.


Dear darling, my poetry is nigh

and your heart is even closer.

If I kiss you someday,

would you feel the lips or the words

against your forehead?

No I won’t write about love,

I know I was brewing a ticket to extinction

inside my thumping lungs.


We live between two extremes –

either the pen or the writer,

either the whole or the fixed,

either the loved or the loving,

either the moon or the sun.


I have a glitch on the system on my

sunshine mornings,

I couldn’t sleep,

so I wrote this for you,

but at some point,

there is only one way,

it’s just something that I am living with,

it’s just the hint of watercolor tears,

it’s like how it is supposed to end,

like you know it is going to end,

like how it ends.


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