In her incessant memory,
Your times were black;
Always an addition
to the white smile
Grating across her lips.
It hung from your shoulders
like the curtains.
Always a separation
from an ardent breast
Forcing femininity closer.
Your clothes were black
Her blood, cold and purple;
Drying and fading in
the back of your head.
She hides among the folds;
You see only traces of her white-
Seeing her in parts.
The times were always black;
Leveling against your warm lips,
Leveling to the girlish
touch
But always in control.
The curtains just barely move, but
in time with her breath;
steaming over the window.
And only the color remains;
One thousand shades of black
Rotting in your attic, open
only to theives.
She has stolen only what she needs,
And she wears it out;
Modeling a string of your
cloudy pearls-
Lusterless against her
gleaming white skin.
She knows you will see her
And she'll break your black
all over a burning sun.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
In her incessant memory,
Your times were black;
Always an addition
to the white smile
Grating across her lips.
It hung from your shoulders
like the curtains.
Always a separation
from an ardent breast
Forcing femininity closer.
Your clothes were black
Her blood, cold and purple;
Drying and fading in
the back of your head.
She hides among the folds;
You see only traces of her white-
Seeing her in parts.
The times were always black;
Leveling against your warm lips,
Leveling to the girlish
touch
But always in control.
The curtains just barely move, but
in time with her breath;
steaming over the window.
And only the color remains;
One thousand shades of black
Rotting in your attic, open
only to theives.
She has stolen only what she needs,
And she wears it out;
Modeling a string of your
cloudy pearls-
Lusterless against her
gleaming white skin.
She knows you will see her
And she'll break your black
all over a burning sun.
Request permission to use this poem