I allowed the books to wrap me up with its pages
and it felt warm to find reality more fictive than fiction.
I allowed the words to scratch my spine
and it called for a bend to read those words.
I ran into those chapters drier than the deserts
and every thought still climbed into your eyes.
Climbing back to the bed
and I am dead still living.
Horrific night seems to pick my heart apart
it licks my tears clean,
and I must be the core composition of the art that says
hello, I have been looking for you.
Tonight, the curtains fell too soon
and the roses drew passion as blood into my palms.
Of all things I have said,
your eyes never lie.
They speak the truth,
no matter when I see you
because in the end,
I am an honest poet trying to understand my pen.
It crafts a tattoo you will never be able to let go off.
So, won’t you want to write for me tonight?
Won’t you feed me all your words?
Won’t you call me yours before I am finished?
These nights urge to write your secrets across my lips for safekeeping.
The gloomy sky is just another ocean for me to sing in the wake of a reality that doesn’t exist,
and the sun is puzzled by my prayer,
swallowing the wishes I haven’t yet blown out.
Sometimes I just want to listen your heartbeat and I call you
but I wonder if it changes once I leave.
Some days, I feel like I don’t belong to the world,
like I belong to the heavens,
like I belong to the stars.
I so often write letters that talk back to me,
they gush gasoline onto my fireproof tears,
like the most satisfying puddle
and ask them to burn.
When love catches you on fire,
you don’t have the privilege to ask
how long you will burn.
The truth is –
you will have these black lungs.