stupidfac

I like to think you could be real - like candlelight, like azurite, your dark skin and dewy eyes. Memories cheat us like that. Sweetened rum, softening the edges, flickering the lights. You, pouring the glass, trailing down my sundress. The alleys growing darker, the reggae roaring on. Flashing sunsets, and words I'd rather not- -I cheat myself just fine. I like to think you can speak - that your words cannot -must not- be secluded in the tiniest traces. I like to think poesy can still be too little to speak the most- because metaphors are glorious, imperious, majestic forms- so I can feel, so I can tremble. I like to imagine your face i

And I then find myself at loss of words, staring behind the pale glass. I find myself running, pulling hard on your coat. And my lips find your mouth, and my hands find your heart, except it beats hardly... or not at all. You should be so cruel to kiss me, so senseless to encase me in your verses and make me feel new. You should be so, so quiet as my tears fall. I'll let the door shut loudly, lest you hear me scream. You should know I'll walk aimlessly in these streets. I'll reach the park where you once said we were immortal, like love, or music. I'll stare at the stars and quietly beg for answers that no god, and no angels will softly ab