you were scabbed with the bitter breath and air of december's tragedy, and perhaps it's truly better than it sounds but i can never tell. i never lived my life in violent indigos.

the sun seeps through your window in such a way your dark night eyes look like a desirable honey that drips from a bee's hive

your lips are pulled tight because your tongue is filled with secrets that are ready to spill out in the open like cream pouring into coffee. 

you never tell me about the foreign chapped lips against your skin, but i remember they made you feel what i couldn't give you.

you cut my heart out with a butter knife because your tongue isn't as sharp as you would like it to be. you place it on a silver platter and say bon appetit!

i hope for you my darling, my heart tastes like asphalt and red wine, because that's what's fit for dying gods.