Drying blood on old teeth.
Poor old things.
A life of events, and nothing to say?
I love you -
I can say that
It's not fair -
I can say that
It happens everyday -
you could say that.
But not to me.
This is gritty.
This is salt in my eyes.
This is the devil,
popping my spline with a pin.
But
The Teeth
The Mind
The Hair
you are beautiful.
Red on yellow teeth,
that is my beauty.
A dull harsh moment
slow realization,
my last words
that I breathe, for you,
could only be,
that I'm sorry.