Jun 2019
———"that familiar boiling yolk of a sunrise—comas richer than russian dark chocolate— & saturn smoking a cigar while playing chess with gravity... i have been here before."
ocean dove, pardon my excuses for not writing as of late; been busy fulfilling a prophecy that can't even look me in the eye and ask me to change. in the june wreckage of two thousand and sixteen; i retired my tongue with the dormant volcanoes before the world could end in my mouth. and yet my poetry informs me that there are some wounds too sophisticated to even flower into scars—kind of like how my words will never feel like honey again, (but vinegar nonetheless.)
how cruel of me it was; to condemn you to a death without one final cigarette slow dancing with your lungs. i miss the shadows of you most: the belt of venus caged like a wild animal in your eyes, your rusty guitar silky voice dripping off the haunted house we called home, countless a.m. drives kicking up filthy moonlight in the rearview mirror, but most of all—the way you said 'i love you' like it was nothing dressed up in something fashionable.
it is now the june of two thousand and nineteen. this wreckage sat on a throne and filled into the moon's shoes. a crown crawled it's way home to my head and kissed me with knowledge drenched in your name. this queen started from lesson no. 1: broken instruments, will preach broken sounds— and how lovely it has been, planting a world war in my soul only to raise eden in it's stead. i will miss your company, but your ghost is no longer a requirement for me to be complete.
i have learned to stop loving falsehoods. i have learned to start loving the leftovers of who i am becoming. we would have been star crossed lovers had you not tried to swallow that bottle of pills that famous night where we fought like madonnas— but it looks like you got to death's fortune cookie before i did.
"and one day, you will have lived long enough to taste your grief turn bittersweet too"———
ocean dove, pardon my excuses for not writing as of late; been busy fulfilling a prophecy that can't even look me in the eye and ask me to change. in the june wreckage of two thousand and sixteen; i retired my tongue with the dormant volcanoes before the world could end in my mouth. and yet my poetry informs me that there are some wounds too sophisticated to even flower into scars—kind of like how my words will never feel like honey again, (but vinegar nonetheless.)
how cruel of me it was; to condemn you to a death without one final cigarette slow dancing with your lungs. i miss the shadows of you most: the belt of venus caged like a wild animal in your eyes, your rusty guitar silky voice dripping off the haunted house we called home, countless a.m. drives kicking up filthy moonlight in the rearview mirror, but most of all—the way you said 'i love you' like it was nothing dressed up in something fashionable.
it is now the june of two thousand and nineteen. this wreckage sat on a throne and filled into the moon's shoes. a crown crawled it's way home to my head and kissed me with knowledge drenched in your name. this queen started from lesson no. 1: broken instruments, will preach broken sounds— and how lovely it has been, planting a world war in my soul only to raise eden in it's stead. i will miss your company, but your ghost is no longer a requirement for me to be complete.
i have learned to stop loving falsehoods. i have learned to start loving the leftovers of who i am becoming. we would have been star crossed lovers had you not tried to swallow that bottle of pills that famous night where we fought like madonnas— but it looks like you got to death's fortune cookie before i did.
"and one day, you will have lived long enough to taste your grief turn bittersweet too"———
my alibi still tosses in it's sleep at night thinking of you.
© Copywrite Skaidrum
© Copywrite Skaidrum
