I cut myself on the future
I thought of kissing your picture
I detached myself from
lullabies and sorry eyes
only to realize:

I want to make love to you in November,
just before the empty of December.
Where snow blankets
and suffocating leaf-beds
aren't the only dreams
to fall asleep in our heads.

I could hear your voice trip
as my hands started to drip
around your hips and thighs-
You could tranquilize
with your lips and byes.

You look so sleepy-headed
Many words I have threaded
to weave a dream
desperately
but you prefer my
reality.

When I fall asleep my eyes meet yours.

Wise men can tell you
of stories in the stars,
how life began on this earth
and that love is an imbalance of the heart.

These wise men drank wisdom
from the pages of age-old books.
They spent their lives learning of
what others know not.

I
see you in stars.
My life began to get me to you
and I don't care what love is
as long as it makes sense to you.

I spent my life knowing that of you
what others will never know.

I read your scars
like a lover's braille.

And I am not wise at all.

I have this creeping ache on the edges of my bones
like the way crystal forms,
slowly.

Like the way prehistoric bugs that live in caves die every day.

I think I forgot to close my eyes and woke up blind.

I live my days hoping to grow inwards until my bones
start the delicate tearing of my skin and
water fills my lungs.

I have longed for this to happen ever since i was 7 and
I heard drowning was the closest you can get to

euphoria.