My breath would love to have a randevu
with your lips.
It screams in every single language I know
"Obey me! Obey me! Obey me!"
and keeps my mental equilibrium
in a dungeon,
leading me to hunger pains
with no hugs and forehead kisses to feed them.

My heels keep on clicking towards
somewhere you might be,
wailing loud enough
for all the love deities to hear.

Just come here already.
I'll arrange us some fine hot tea
and buy your favorite bakery,
we'll keep it proper yet overwhelming
and I'll let you wear my house slippers
so you won't get
cold feet.

Look at you, an atheist addressing God,
a fairytale beast caged
and force-fed with Prozac,
awaiting redemption.

You won't let me spill some light
on your spectacular murals
that you've been hiding lately behind
"loneliness is a bliss" and "goodbye".

I want my "how was your day"s and "take care"s
and caressing mutual core.
I want my greyscale back
and all of my pages blank, serene and sober.
I want to peel you off the arteries' walls
as easy as I peel off my nail polish when I get anxious

unless I get to be
Goldielocks once again.

I wish each blunt I'd smoke
would erase a letter of your name
from the top of my lungs.

You see, you've changed my name
to "C'est la vie, Darling".
My mother died later that year
so the phone calls addressing my forgotten self
stopped eventually.

Two Thursdays ago I had cinnamon buns with Hades.
He was such a flirt with
these benevolent eyes of liquid brown
mirroring my self hate
and bad dub;
casting me away
from your smell in my apartment
right before you wash the day off your mortal flesh.

He bought me scented candles
and invited me to where the roots are,
and there wasn't enough oxygen
to lit up my blunt.

I pledge allegiance
to the genuine warmth down my guts
and the shivering drops of your sweat
all over my oh so lucky existence.

Philotes won't have mercy
on my sore knees and my thirsty heart.
"Acquire patience, my beloved child"-
he'd say as my ***** would beg
for one more lie of yours.

Your radiance whisked me away,
pulled the carpet from under my feet
and left me wandering the greyscale
of placebo love,
lust overflow
and polite embraces.

I like to lay myself on your sheets
for I can't stand falling for you
each and very time
I get up and leave.

I've done my nails, sugar,
so I can write a love song
down your spine.

As a delirious soul in the Asylum of Wicked
I would measure my serotonin reuptake
by the times your name
was carved into my brain relentlessly
each time you sang your song.

And if Ming Dynasty would build
the Great Wall of Silence instead,
it would cross your mind
and pass by the corner of your smile
never ending.

I'd probably try to conquer it,
but my Ventolin would be defetead by them times
I'd fall from you.
I'd fall for you.