Maybe,
If you tattooed my name on your chest,
you’d at least remember how to spell it.
They would be the only words
that ever actually came from your heart.
Yes, my love for you is dead.
Her body is the tomb stone, though.
I’d lay flowers down
but the cemetery stank of her perfume.
It’s tragically ironic, that
every ‘I love you’ you wasted your breath on,
you saved in a jar
that you now give to her.
You drink your coffee with recycled love,
she takes hers with naivety.
And maybe one day,
I’ll stop writing ****** poems
about your touch and your skin and you.
Because one of these nights I’ll throw out your t shirt.
And when the storm inside of you
inevitably ruins you,
and takes her with you,
I’ll be sure to bury you in the same coffin.
Jan 17, 2020
Jan 17, 2020 at 5:16 PM UTC
Maybe,
If you tattooed my name on your chest,
you’d at least remember how to spell it.
They would be the only words
that ever actually came from your heart.
Yes, my love for you is dead.
Her body is the tomb stone, though.
I’d lay flowers down
but the cemetery stank of her perfume.
It’s tragically ironic, that
every ‘I love you’ you wasted your breath on,
you saved in a jar
that you now give to her.
You drink your coffee with recycled love,
she takes hers with naivety.
And maybe one day,
I’ll stop writing ****** poems
about your touch and your skin and you.
Because one of these nights I’ll throw out your t shirt.
And when the storm inside of you
inevitably ruins you,
and takes her with you,
I’ll be sure to bury you in the same coffin.
