There is no story as romantic as
the sun dying for the moon every night,
but we all know how that ends.
True love never crossing paths
with each other's skin.

Maybe what we have isn't true love
and all the romantic moments
of curling her charcoal hair between
my fingers is just an effect from the drugs.

There are men killing innocent children
who will never grow up to watch us stare
into each other's eyes.

Now, there's murderers on the television
who will get more recognition than those
who fight for love and not for blood.

I wish she could see the way
my fingers shake when they are
gripping her skinny frame.

No, I am not thinking about her.
My mind is more focused on the death
of my poor soul who was trapped
underneath all the memories
she made sure she got rid of.