And now I feel like a bottle floating around the sea.
But there’s no message or letters behind,
it’s only empty.

it is dripping
into syrup again,
a bird with
no wings and
no voice
with which to cry

it has only talons
to bend bone
but there are none
so syrup sticks to feathers
and syrup drowns
and a bird is drunken

it bears only a coat
of fledgeling's down
and wants to be nothing

it wants to be nothing

****** isn’t a love song.

It isn’t the warmth of your lover’s lips,
or their hands skimming across your naked skin.

People are not ******.

Drugs are not a metaphor for your personal Adonis.

It isn’t beautiful.

It isn’t romantic.

It sure as hell ain’t heaven (but it really ******* feels like it).

Sometimes you imagine them.

Their body pressed against yours. Heated kisses and veins like cracks through marble—

Soft enough to carve with your aching fingertips.

People. Are not. ******.

You want someone whose presence can be melted down and injected.

People falter, break, lie, abuse, cheat, steal
and
leave.

Oh, God knows you have (every God you never even knew you prayed to).

You feel too much and then too little.

Not everything is as simple as fixing a rig but everything is as complicated as searching through your skin, trying again and again and AGAIN to find a perfect place to let that melted bliss baptize you for the

first;
fiftieth
hundredth
time.

Love is not a drug.

Addiction is not a religion.

Someone’s absence is not withdrawal.

Death is not poetry.

****** isn’t a ******* love song.