I never thought that Lucifer would be so pretty.
He has your hands, darling- pink and white:
like roses in Russia, or else a scab that hasn't quite healed.
His hair is hot as hell, which is unsurprising, honestly.
He shuffles through the Moscow streets with reality
peeled away from his eyelids. I don't think he sees me at all
and yet I feel him, cold as the ice on which we tread towards each other. I wonder if he closed his eyes when he fell from heaven.
You did, I know. You hate heights, or perhaps just the falling.
Maybe that's why the love-thing never worked out.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
I never thought that Lucifer would be so pretty.
He has your hands, darling- pink and white:
like roses in Russia, or else a scab that hasn't quite healed.
His hair is hot as hell, which is unsurprising, honestly.
He shuffles through the Moscow streets with reality
peeled away from his eyelids. I don't think he sees me at all
and yet I feel him, cold as the ice on which we tread towards each other. I wonder if he closed his eyes when he fell from heaven.
You did, I know. You hate heights, or perhaps just the falling.
Maybe that's why the love-thing never worked out.