A fragment of mist contained within a black and grey rainbow
Drop of acid rain
Scent of sulfur on a sunny day
The thorn that ****** the finger of the rose given Lady
A speechless recording
Out of tune song, sang by crows
Hair on a starving mans plate
A childs screaming nightmare, at the witching hour
Golden haired sinner amongst the feast of all saints
Me
~A

His voice is full of money. A masculine imitation of Daisy Buchanan, raised by southern rich folk who once might've migrated from somewhere up north. He was tall and fair, sophisticated but still youthful in the shadows of his speech. He appeared god-like, a prince heir to the throne of a cloud's eternity, towering over you like riches in the sky, full of untouchable beauty, just out of reach.

A sudden rush
A stone drops into the water
The first lighting strikes
A bud begins to open
A drop of rain bends the leaf
The last red on the horizon
A cloud turns a wisp
A wind sweeps the ground
The moon disappears.
The burn in my throat
The ash on your tongue
The first drop of cornering water
The last hesitated sigh
The last hello
The first goodbye
Day by day
Night by night
Still I fall
Still I rise

He has a tall stature, a muscular build, and holds a posture like a Greek god. His shoulders and jaw both perfectly squared. He has a profile that would inspire Michelangelo. A nose sculpted from clay, his eyes of arble, which reflect an ocean's light. A sharp-shaven chin and waves of silk on his head. Messy curls fall in place with a painter's still perfection, enframing complementary angles of his cheekbones. His gaze is gentle, but crystal. Eyes the color of teal water rising up on the shore. There is no doubt he was crafted in Heaven, but why does an Angel like him rest on such wretched ground.

Only ever in dreams do I wrap my arms around you.

I find myself scared of falling in love, of craving you every second of every day, of needing you, of becoming addicted to you. I am scared of missing you more than I can handle, of losing you, and losing myself in you.

This is the year I said "I love you" with blood between my teeth.
The same year I wrote more poetry than I could swallow, all in an attempt to sort chaotic thoughts.
I cut my hair without notice, purposefully uneven, "a cry for help."
I drank my own words to full up all the "okays" and empty "goodbyes."
This is the year I lost too much sleep, and my hands began to look like they belonged to someone else.
The stars glued to my ceiling faded out, and I brought a fake smile to a gun fight.
I've got some nervous habits but you are by far the worst one.

You painted daisies on my wrists and planted roses inside each ribcage and then you told me that you don't like flowers because they die too fast.

You are an ocean but secrets don't float and I had to drown to get to your soul, but you didn't save me when I tired and forgot how to swim and now my lungs are burning and my lips are too blue to say that I miss you

I wanted you from the second I saw you and so many people will think that's sweet but honestly I don't know how much longer I can live in the dust kicked up by your cold feet

***** burns my throat but your name haunts my head so I would rather blackout with a promising hangover than stare blankly at my hands trying to forget what it was like to touch you.

Sometimes, I wake up at four in the morning and still taste smoke in the back of my throat. I swear to god, you're still burning somewhere inside me.