To call you Love
would be an understatement.

You are a brand new dictionary
brought into the world of an overly confident writer
to humble herself.
You’ve redefined all of the words
I thought I knew the meanings of.
Now— all that I’ve written and will write
cease to be enough.

You are a revolutionary interpreter,
decoding words with the slightest of your touch.
“Trust”, a foreign concept to me,
has now become tangible—
your hands are trust.
Comfort has become your arms.
Warmth, your embrace.
And beauty, supposedly subjective,
has turned apparent, obvious
in every curve and softness of your face,

To call you Love
would be an understatement.
You are more than Love—
You are as you are.

...and that allure
so poorly hidden
and so over the top
in her smile
just had to keep me going.
        if anything,
she was my fuel
              and if anything else,
     she was happy to burn out
     if she was lighting the way for me—
before she had to go
she'd always tried
convincing me too
          'red had always been my color'
      when we've always
      and only have
                 ever known
   she looked best in a deep shade of blue.
at least i got to tell her
now that i understand
she could look perfect
in any other tint or hue.
            i guess there is
            a billion happy things
            about being your
            lover's own killer
like she swore there would
      as if she knew even a single thing
      about happy endings—

                           so vague and
          insatiable...
          just like her—

i got to hear her last words
muffled... mangled
    as i was pretending
    that i wasn't the man
    plunging that knife
    twisting the handle
    as the blade inches
    through her guts
           like a ***** slowly
           being driven in to
           the notch it belongs

"tell her she's lucky."
"she landed the man of the year."
"tell her she deserves you."
"and if you ever hurt her,"
"i will haunt you down and kick your ***."
        "tell her sorry"
        "that i couldn't"
        "make the ceremony"
        "if only i had a red dress..."
"but you can go now."
"and have the happiest day of your life."
"i am so proud of you."
        
                    i could really swear
                    this is the happiest
                    of the days of my life.

        a galactic soiree embraced me
        as soon as i entered the chapel
                cerulean sashes
  and a deep slate-coloured motif carpet
  with the lush of stargazers in every step
  as if the maid of honor did this all for me
it was perfect. everything was.
up to the string quartet playing
queen's love of my life as she
was walking down the isle
in her perfect velvet dress
         as if the only blazing light
         trying its best to glow bright
         in the pallid glum sight
         all around us...
                 with all her might—
she joined me to face the altar
unfazed by the absence of her
very best friend that planned this day...
        there are a billion happy things
        that i could just smile about
        just while standing there still:
   the wonder of 'i do' that for so long
   we've always anticipated to vow
   in front of each other and a priest;
         the gusto of that bolognese
         we've spent to much to have
         catering for in the reception;
that irrepleceable magic
of the musicians as they
played chopin's fantaisie;
     and that allure.
     so poorly hidden
     and just so ****
     over the top
            in her smile—

but i know red suits her
so much better...
     she should've been
     the one slathered
     covered in crimson
                                     not you—

one of the billion happy things
about being your lover's killer
is the fact that beyond the grave
i know exactly where to find you...