my lighter ran out of gas
so I lit my cigarette on the stove.
I was saving this light for you
and your pesto pasta,
still in its ***.

it won't get wrapped up with the care
with which I wrap my nicotine
but it'll be wrapped
and waiting for you
like I always do
till I've no more rizlas
or love left to give
unreturned

and as my *** embers out
and I go to light another
tick tick tick
I know, you're worse for me
than this packaged love

it's more than beauty
the sun that brings with her, life
the coffee is brewed, apples bruised
honey or marmalade
both heat on the cheek,
and through the seasons I lie

apiaries and aviaries
roses sprout to wilt
to pay their duties,
she brought me that bouquet,
I said i'd put it in a vase
while the constellations linger

6am now she will soar again
in enormous impossible colours
with fleeting secrets,
and all the beautiful places
I will never see have seen her grace,
through air pollution or aurora
she's filled with their pain, love
curtains have another side
the grass is green the sky is blue

I'm an art gallery
pristine and empty till
a sea of watercolour
it's everywhere then nowhere
a fresh batch of
genuine love unreturned
it's innocent till its all-consuming
each piece fleeting and plummeting
with emotions of Winsor and Newton
each a serene numb oblivion to their virtuoso
who is digested into 8pt. Times New Roman
and printed out

this is not beauty
this is not romance
why can't you see
what's right there
my depression is becoming
who I don't want to be
and you don't want to be her either
behind my composition
I am not composed

the palette is always messy
and the artist always starving

if there's a cold part of hell
that's where you belong.
with the fallen angels,
the witches and the meek.
you're the reason I believe in ghosts
and your contract is lengthy.

and I will rise once more
with the morning sun
my same waxy skin
and melodic melancholy

the birds they cry
and it is beautiful
and you spread our pollen
and watch that pretty porcelain skin
turn to flames, your rose-tinted glasses
may hide my hue but I can't stop sneezing

a song about me but mostly you,
it's a shame, I cant share it.
for you're not a rose but oleanders,
it was always my fault, too late for sorry
I'm sorry.
you already knew how I feel.
him, like the white noise of military submarines at 03:28,
the main character is never a villain my little inferno.
this one was written for a different life's you and I. not you and me.
still, my skull blooms to bouquets. thorned flowers. fed with sugar water and brandy.
overgrown my mixtape seeping to my throat, I'll hear when my skins clear and I'm lean.

friends                                                          ­                 a relationship
                                                   timing

    its a shame you fell in love and out of it before I could catch up
    and now im left mourning what never was
    with only my thoughts
    a pen
    and
    citrus