You love whom you love.
The angel whose tears burn your skin.
The sorceress who lights the sun to light the grave.
The disciple who worships the god that cut out your tongue.
And I love you. I don’t want to, but I do.
I love you, and heaven is embers in my eyes.
It’s late September. We’re passing a bottle of wine late at night.
Sitting on a worn out couch outside her apartment, talking about life.
Red wine leads to red thoughts, of what comes when death finds us,
and what will be left of us as this world burns away sweetness for a laugh,
of what could last for all time.
A bottle finished, another opened. We don’t realize where this will lead.
Just something to soothe broken hearts, make us feel light and full of dreams.
Her man left her. I’m facing the loss of someone dear. The stars gave us no names.
We’re both lonely and raw and just trying to hold onto warmth as winter comes.
We get drunk. We always get drunk.
She ends up asleep on my shoulder, asleep, troubled and at peace.
Both bottles of wine empty at my feet. Her rust colored hair bleeds
the death of sweetness, of hope, down my chest. Another wound.
Buzzed, full of dreams, way too horny, I watch the sky, counting her breathes
and counting the stars, and giving up on the tenderness of the moon.
“Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing”—Macbeth
“Sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough, I don’t know why.”—Born To Die