There was a boy beside the river and he smelled like poetry.* His lips watered the flowers in my tongue and soon grew infused with words and metaphors. His touch delivered a tidal wave of poetic shock that awakened my dull veins. But one night, he had his arms around me but somehow I still felt cold. And my lungs are suffocating with toxic that he hid behind his artistic mask. When he was mine he drowned me in poetry. When I was his he drowned me in salt water.  My spirit is lurking in the riverbank where I first met him. There was me, above the water, my poetic veins contaminated by salt waterthat aggravates the wounds inside of me. He was sitting there by a stone, smelling like poetry, looking for his next victim.