lost souls don't end up in asphodel meadows, honey —
they end up in your apartment;
a messy, poorly-lit place.
or so i did.
our systems filled
with nicotine and other bad ideas
i will for sure regret.
well, truth be told,
you're mine to regret.
well truth be told,
but there we were,
flung in a den of frenzied kisses —
skin next to a black hole,
a black hole next to a skin
guess we'll never know which is who.
but tonight break me —
we both know this isn't your
type of love.
so tonight stain me,
and i'll call it a pseudo-romance, darling
and maybe after,
we can smoke cigarettes
or watch the city fall asleep
or stare at each other's empty eyes;
maybe somehow that's more of our style
darling, than staring at the sunrise is.
but at this moment i know,
in this poorly-lit place,
that i will waste my words writing
beautiful poetry for you,
even if i'm not that beautiful myself.
even if you're not that beautiful yourself.
even if we're not that beautiful ourselves.