I scrape the crust at the folds of your reflection.
it’s dismaying to know we’ve to retire yet another door.
I keep tasting grey everywhere I go. I wish something would surprise me.
every day blends into the next,
a cocktail with no flavour but plenty of potency,
drowning memory and time into glasses of obsolescence.
so I go on burying my ichor in dirt.
you, in your temperamental Lethe —
you can mourn your loss and
you can lash your back in repentance and
you can swear you’ll never let your heart beat in your hands again and
you can swallow each year of sorrow like a bitter pill and
you can chase it with the poison of amnesia to **** the ghosts of loss and
I will stay on my toes because hope is petulant
and she knows how to resuscitate the dead
even when lungs and worlds collapse.
I’ve lived in goodbyes for long enough to know their taste in words
but you never let me kiss them off your lips so I’ll breathe —
and I’ll hope that hope does what she can.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 4:30 AM UTC
I scrape the crust at the folds of your reflection.
it’s dismaying to know we’ve to retire yet another door.
I keep tasting grey everywhere I go. I wish something would surprise me.
every day blends into the next,
a cocktail with no flavour but plenty of potency,
drowning memory and time into glasses of obsolescence.
so I go on burying my ichor in dirt.
you, in your temperamental Lethe —
you can mourn your loss and
you can lash your back in repentance and
you can swear you’ll never let your heart beat in your hands again and
you can swallow each year of sorrow like a bitter pill and
you can chase it with the poison of amnesia to **** the ghosts of loss and
I will stay on my toes because hope is petulant
and she knows how to resuscitate the dead
even when lungs and worlds collapse.
I’ve lived in goodbyes for long enough to know their taste in words
but you never let me kiss them off your lips so I’ll breathe —
and I’ll hope that hope does what she can.
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