Take my feeling tongue
in your mouth.

tell it all the secrets you could never tell me.*

And Afterwards

all i will know
is the taste of
your unabashed tongue.

Vermillion scarred skin.
Your lips bring blood
back to me.

it's 12:44 in the morning, which I guess really makes it 0:44am but I can only remember our argument over whether 24 beats 12. justification became second nature in dialogue not anything agreeable seemed to come out from our words. then again if agreeability was something I could relate too, i wouldn't be writing poetry. at least i sound somewhat honest. its relatable i know that much, it's rare not to find someone who hasn't  

spent the nights and mornings thinking about regrets- except you of course- and I'm hoping that this will be some sort of exorcism as i didn't let the frankenstien friendship die in my heart like it did in yours.

I'm still listening to the songs.
I'm still learning the words.
I'm still singing them by myself.
*so did anything really change.

I will write the poetry that could have saved
Me.