You've left me here
In pools of honey and vanilla
Dreaming of London fog
Holding onto chamomile evenings
With every last breath
Orange pekoe on my tongue
Thoughts of you like jasmine flowers
Warm water and green tea
Something hibiscus and peach
Floating like little worlds
Surrounding me as I drown
In this romanticized life
Watching you swirl your spoon
In everything
We said
Was not our cup of tea

how did i romanticize this in such a way
there were no soft whispers, no shy touches
we moved quick, with staggered rhythms

neither of our hips lined up properly
we sounded more animalistic than anything
it was good, alright, a good ****, alright, but

this wasn't quite what i was looking for
lust wasn't quite what i was asking for
you weren't quite what i was hoping for

i find it funny
how often i speak of love
when i myself
don't quite know what it is
and don't quite know what the difference is
between romance
and romanticised.

but eventually, all the metaphors fall apart
and come to nothing
like paper dissolving in water
fanciful words dissolving with it
and without romanticized phrases
and rose-tinted writings
there is only unembellished truth

To love a man that gives you the moon and all of the constellations,
                      this gift, I did not receive.

Instead, I loved a man who could create skies of jade and violet among any area of his choosing with his own bare hands.

To love a man that gives you a bouquet of twelve burgundy roses,
                     this gift, I did not receive.

Instead, I loved a man who could produce a field of golden pansies atop my right cheek with his own fingertips.

To love a man that gives you a kiss beneath a lantern string of lights,
                     this gift, I did not receive.

Instead, I loved a man who could shoot the most colorful of fireworks and streamers from the booming sound of his own voice.

To love a man that gives you a floral path from the door to a candle-lit room,
            this gift, I did not receive.

Instead, I loved a man who could toss a book through the air and before it struck my skin, it would burst into pink rose petals with a clap from
the same bare hands that painted me jade and violet skies.

Runaway,
Feel the pain
Taste the rain
For me.

Catch each drop to wash away
All the moments that we kissed.
You were always sorry,
I was never amused.

Read it through
Drink this
Forget my name,
Please.

Drain your thoughts to your ears,
Let them spill this liquid that thrills
Wait, let me spill my guts to you
So that you can fall harder.

Punch the wall
Bruise your hand
Make marks
For her to see.

Caress her porcelain skin
With your black and blue hands
Abraded and rough, maybe it's enough
But now she thinks you're brave.

Bleeding blisters
Metallic taste
Waste of space
That pretty face.

Tear it to pieces that you can't read
Strokes of wet red for all to see
Just lay back down in the ground
And try to sleep.

Isn't it wonderful:
the way you become
so enveloped
in a world
that isn't your own?
the way
people romanticize you
sitting on a park bench
trying to escape
from the life
you call yours?
the way your emotions
run wild
reading about adventures
you'll never have?
when you've become
so numb
to the world around you
because you've read
too much fiction
to know the difference
between reality and fantasy?