I had eight days with you,
on the first day
you were the sweet prayer
of salvation,
you wrote me poetry
in the stars,
with the moon
devouring my
whole house.
Conversations of
broken hearts
two souls finally
touching each other.
The fingertips almost
grasping
an essence of
a strange acquaintance.
On the second day,
I promised myself
that
I will never write you poetry.
Because it seems like every time
I write a lover a poem,
it becomes a curse.
The downfall of
something
that could almost explode
in obsession.
But I wrote anyways...
As I am writing now;
half in love, half heartless.
The third day,
I asked myself,
what it would be like to be utterly
destroyed
by something
unknown. To close my eyes,
before I give my heart.
To never ask questions,
to accept the
violence of romance.
On the fourth day,
I felt more guilty
than the day
I betrayed my friends
for love.
I cried on the white couch
staining it with tears
and misery.
I hung up the phone,
and I wanted to burn
all the documents
of my existence.
On the fifth day
I wanted you more than
my darkest fantasies.
I was keen to accept
the worst version of myself
That my heart
was as aloof as my
younger self knew it.
The sixth day was the worst,
I was in the middle
of life. I was in the middle
of love. I was in the middle
of heartbreak and success.
On the seventh day,
I began to dig up
the cigarettes buried
under my house. With
dirty hands,
I light one up,
and I dedicate it
to the plot.
One for the money.
Two for the show.
On the eighth day,
I understood
that souls die
just so they can mate.
Now months later,
I realized
that you were just a beautiful
stranger
with the ugliest manners.
vaporwave
germansingergirl
annaxmalina
areudirty
