he tastes verid , like cigarette smoke and sadness he is a walking tragedy , his lungs acrid , decaying & rotting from this thing he calls love . a hangman’s noose settled at his shoulders the executioner sings a dying tune and that boy , he smiles , full of cruel delight for the morbidity of life .
he’ll drown himself in whiskey , fold his tragedies into a drug and he’ll down it with the release of inhibitions ( anything , he croons like mourning doves , anything but the nightmares ) he hurts in ways your fingertips cannot comprehend there is an ache in the very core of his soul if you reach in , split flesh like supple peach skin , twist your fingers you can pull out his heart , and he will smile in the bloodied and dying light .
he tastes verid , and his kisses are a tragic melody upon your skin you’ll pray for his salvation , bow your head at the pulpit but all that’s left of him when you come home will be the memories of what could have been .
—– r . k . // i think of you every night , know i wait for you still