I started tearing a tissue.
An old tissue in which the cotton is easy tearing apart.
I tore it into stripes,
Twitch it in the small pieces of cloth.
It was a summer afternoon,
I sat slumped on the kitchen floor.
In the distance you could hear the radio.
Last night I cried.
And this morning.
In a dream.
Under my withered eyelids
You appeared
Bringing the blossomed memories.
In immoral attempts
You want me sunken.
Red dust of tissue
And that tingling all over me
In this icy solitude
They take you by your waist
And it's like you're here with me,
With your head laid on the ****** tiles.
Suffering floats through the air
Darkened with the walls of smoke.
I'm touching your death,
Calmed for a long time,
I'm saving your pain
In the interior of your ribs.
I can not tell whether this is really you,
Grubby and rotten.
Crushed.
With my lips I'm touching the red clusters of your brain
Which is slowly turning into roses
Or maybe cyclamen.
You are still present here,
Your beauty has not changed
Although your eyes are empty and cheeks sunken.
I wipe your face remains with a tissue
And I cry.
I killed you,
And put your soul in a jar
Painted in the colors of my heart.
And now we are here
Together reclining in clotted blood
Covered with cotton threads
Of a tissue.
Just another necrophilia poem.
