Just what was love to you, sweet darling of nothing but bitter
what were its intentions
what reason was it there for
what wonders did it long to see
How many desserts did it wander
how many oceans did it swim
how many infernos did it dare enter
Darling, just what is love to you?
Was it as visible as your crystal-clear mirror
or was it as hidden as the flaws you tried to bury six feet under
while she was enveloped well in layers and layers of your pockets
in her gravestone, written, “Suffocated”.
Darling, just what is love to you?
Was it as long-lasting as the stains you’ve left in every room inside her house
or was it as impatient as those almost-adventures to deep seas, warm sunsets, and high mountains
she was just as ready and as packed as you were but you were already-distant when she went out the door.
Darling, just what is love to you?
Was it as understanding as the sea is to the shore
or was it as frustrating as a thread through the tiniest needle’s eye
you covered her in you salt-water and embroidered on her skin as if it was paper.
Darling, just what is love to you?
The truth is, darling; love to you was no one and nothing other than yourself.
That was all you ever cared for.
That was all you ever sheltered.
That was all you ever loved.
You were the desserts she wandered,
you were the oceans she swam and
you were the infernos she burnt in.
Darling, which was love?
Love to her was the mistaken-beauty in you
and you were so twisted in your paths to even
see how astonished she was that
one day her heart died loving yours.
You slapped heavens out of her and
ripped her silken being
whilst love for her was you.
Darling, you aren't much of it, are you?
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
Just what was love to you, sweet darling of nothing but bitter
what were its intentions
what reason was it there for
what wonders did it long to see
How many desserts did it wander
how many oceans did it swim
how many infernos did it dare enter
Darling, just what is love to you?
Was it as visible as your crystal-clear mirror
or was it as hidden as the flaws you tried to bury six feet under
while she was enveloped well in layers and layers of your pockets
in her gravestone, written, “Suffocated”.
Darling, just what is love to you?
Was it as long-lasting as the stains you’ve left in every room inside her house
or was it as impatient as those almost-adventures to deep seas, warm sunsets, and high mountains
she was just as ready and as packed as you were but you were already-distant when she went out the door.
Darling, just what is love to you?
Was it as understanding as the sea is to the shore
or was it as frustrating as a thread through the tiniest needle’s eye
you covered her in you salt-water and embroidered on her skin as if it was paper.
Darling, just what is love to you?
The truth is, darling; love to you was no one and nothing other than yourself.
That was all you ever cared for.
That was all you ever sheltered.
That was all you ever loved.
You were the desserts she wandered,
you were the oceans she swam and
you were the infernos she burnt in.
Darling, which was love?
Love to her was the mistaken-beauty in you
and you were so twisted in your paths to even
see how astonished she was that
one day her heart died loving yours.
You slapped heavens out of her and
ripped her silken being
whilst love for her was you.
Darling, you aren't much of it, are you?
