Pure salt
On the way to our personal hell, we grew empty, listening to the light buzz of the escalator. You’re standing in front of me, I’d like to ask the lighthouse tattooed on your nape to help me. I’m the cold, deep water you’re staring at, wondering if I can make a grip as strong that my fingers would break under their own pressure. I’m remembering the mountains we saw on the way to France last summer. I’m trapped beyond them, at a place where everything’s divine. Walking through time, carrying my old-fashioned, empty suitcase with a sticker on it, that says ”The world”. I saw this in a children’s science book from 1946. That’s the time when I should have been born. Although it is said, real travelers don’t have any luggage. I’ve had a journey all around my head, to get my mind distracted, losing my way back to you. But no matter how far I get, I can’t get rid of your ghost. So please break my bones, tear down my skin, skies will pour, veins will beg. Sink in my wounds, dance with the germs. You’re pure salt, and I’m screaming…