Its 1:28am and I can't sleep.
Instead of seeing films of technicolor
on the backs of my eyelids,
I'm wondering whether your lips
taste like strawberries or vinegar.
Its amazing how heavy
a chest can feel just fondling
the idea of drowning in you;
and i think about the time you
accidentally called me an angel.

Now its 1:32 and I'm wondering
if an angel falls for you,
does that mean she's plummeting to hell?

Poetry is meant to display something magnificent,
but the only thing magnificent about this
is the tragedy.
(I don't want to write because there is nothing beautiful about this.)
And all I can think about
is how much of a sin it must be
to think about you,
instead of the boy who has built himself
around me like a cathedral.
About how it's dark outside,
but how this longing for you is darker.
About how I only write about boys
I could see myself loving.
And wonder why my thoughts
are dancing around Lucifer
instead of Saint Michael.