My mouth moves in a lonely way.
My breath knows no idea of continuity.
I believe only in the narcissistic consumption of thought.

Is that art?

You confessed to sinning in the womb.
But on your grave, there will be no roses.
Nothing left for your bones.
Just steps sending you shivers.
Taunting you.
Can this last?
My hair tangles in the stale air, and I bite my lips, trying to calm their dancing.
They whisper my poorly kept secrets.

This is ours, this empty home.
With polaroids of strangers on the wall.
A mattress that moans as you slump down.

Its been a long day.

Stained glass reflections on my face as I lean against the window pane.
I watch the ways your pupils contract as they meet mine across the bare room.
You down your coffee from this morning, too sweet, making you scrunch up your nose.
Like electric molasses it moves down your throat, it’s taste on your lips.
Where mine were last night.

My mouth is in motion, and you hear my intentions with a filter of hope.