I see the daisies and the tulips;
the green and the floating ship-
"Come, into this world of love"
Loud he shouted,
that man with white gloves.
One, two, three...- I count the clouds.
No grey, just a lot of blue.
Maybe it's true, maybe there's a world
Far above in this altitude.
I remember my slumber, I remember my pain.
I remember my last meal- oats and a lot of grains.
I remember how you took away my last breath and
Held me captive- locked up with death.
But here I am.
I feel the wind- fresh.
I see the people I love- happy.
I see no tears, not a single face that's gloomy.
And then he whispered in my ear,
That man with the gloves? Yes.
Heaven may not be what it seems.
But we can always dream dream dream.
This is a fantasy verse on life, death, angels, heaven. We all believe in some higher power.
The touch of a fingertip down the spine;
Your kiss tastes a little like coffee, more like sugar-
And you undress me with your brown eyes... I fall in your arms- shaking, almost half alive.
An ice cube between your lips, melts.
Pearly beads all over my *******.
And then we make love-
You keep me half alive.
Oh how I miss you. I made coffee today, just the way you liked. Too sweet, a little too sweet. And I pulled down my curtains, and I let the smell of coffee intoxicate the air inside my room until all I could feel was you all over me. I miss you so much.
"In lores written on skins: deep in red,
They say- Love is a parasite.
Spells woven in lies and comfort made it whole. Almost perfect.
Devouring every ounce of flesh it crept on to-
Blood red, blood red.
Roses dried. Women sacrificed-
Rituals written in a language we all fail to fathom; almost always
Red turned brown on pages that smell of broken promises- time measured in aeons."
I see the lights flickering in the distant background across the sky
Your eyes look into mine-
a thousand galaxies
Your skin rough, your lips soft:
Blood red, blood red
I sighed. Love is after all nothing
But a parasite.
there's a kiss, in a darkened room.
I feel it- the parasitic dread.
I am dead.
I write, not to let go of the pain but to drink it down. In small portions. You may call me a drunkard.
I lost my love. What did you lose?
Yellow, ochre, orange-
I count the colours through the window.
Like pretty Instagram filters, but warmer and soothing.
I can see the Sun, through the textured window and it's wooden bars
Only to realize, nothing beats this feeling of dripping raxeira through every inch of my skin--
Nothing... except YOU.
I write for my lost love. I write for the love yet to reach out. What do you write about? Tell me.
To the one I loved, sometimes a little, sometimes equal to depths unknown-
I carry you in my purse, and I often wonder why I liked to collect people instead of diamonds that shine brighter than all of you.
The postcards I sent with little rose petals stuck on them, did you throw those out?
I wonder if you still forget where you placed the wallet or your keys.
Most days I imagine your voice floating through the air and kissing my skin, and in that moment- I am the happiest.
I try to imagine your lips, the taste of it.
How every touch of your skin made my body burn like wildfire-
Late night muse, late night desires.
And then I lose you,
much like how the night loses it's stars to the blue of the dawn every day.
...I never liked Blue.
Come back, Baby
— The End —