your lips sink ships
and the sparkling blue of the ocean
left behind in your eyes
is deathly and permanent
to sleep would be a silly lie, simple proof
of “don’t touch” and colors melting
with my bones
my lucky fingernails flake away, flecks
of mascara dot my footsteps
with wasted eyelash wishes, salt grains, blood
stains, in a rush
to abandon ship
on this conquered cliff, snow
flurries fly suicidally
towards the sea to drown
and i tell the empty air that mongols
must have won this war, a fearsome army
but kubla khan is nowhere near
only the sparkle in your hair
please, where is my ship
5 comments:
it's actually called "eight hours of" i think, and i look upon it with bittersweet feelings because I WORKED FOR EIGHT HOURS THAT DAY, KILL DIE KILL
also, i never know what to say about anything you write except that it's all amaaaziiiinnnnnggggg so i will again fail to be descriptive and just tell you that this one is amaaaaziiiinnnnnnggggggg.
um yeah, pretty much....
i was going to say something else but it made me sound like an idiot, about the power of words in getting to the root of a feeling in order to accept it, BUT i sounded like an idiot and wrote this instead.
um but didn't you just say it anyway
you, my love, are cruel.
i get it
it makes me sad.
i agree with riley.
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