Your nail polish bent light
at satisfactory fractions,
at will – playing into the night,
refracting alcoholic photons
distorting colors in a strange way;
complimenting the dying Winehouse
in an elaborate estrogen-fueled fumes,
where the melodic haze fogging your aura;
I thought it was a chemical imbalance
in my mind, eyes and taste buds…
It’s believing my lie; the simulacra,
or it could be another illusion –
inside of a Sub-Saharan mirage.
But it was the juxtaposition
cradled me onto the trut.
intertwined with your twilight,
well into the early hours.
of your delicate tabletop hands,
interrogation-like sweat,
And, much like the Pacific;
your presence evades tranquillity
it was like the salt deposits
was worthwhile: the decay.
from carrying your weight,
slipping from the lovemaking sweat
trading the fluids on our bodies,
without any breath and no rest,
between our dried interlocked lips.
That’s all the breath I needed, really.
The perfect dead leaves of crevasses
on your lips; fit perfectly on mine
as we are split by only shells
dehydrated while tiring to the rythm
and immediate space time disturbance.
Then, when they discovered our love;
the Matrix thought it was a glitch…
Your hair sticking to your skin,
the mascara tattooing your neckline,
the fluorescent painting your curvatures,
it rains – all of it; the sweet manna dew,
Let’s not tell the key master,
instead let’s fade away for a second,
and forget about everything that is true…