ocean, childlike eyes,
dreaming of a thirty nine-year old love song
with wine and roman antiques
in her boudoir.

her mouth tastes like salt
her cheeks, corroded,
russian red smeared on her chin like matisse's red studio.
twelve past ten.
she can't do this anymore.
a royal mess in blue velvet.
this is why you should always keep your heart in a cage
and secure its key from thieves
and heartbreak hotel managers.

because losing him dims all the lights,
losing him is like burning alexandria to the ground,
losing him tastes like an outdated blancmange.
her achilles' ****** heel.
and she can't lift her feet to move on.