Our Conversations Keep Getting Longer And I've Never Laughed So Hard,

When the rocks seem miles away and the shore steeping and breathless, the desire to keep falling and falling overcomes the cause, when the sky flew faster than you, all the light was just blinding, never golden and when you lay by the riverbank, scarlet red seeping into clear eyes, scarlet red from where carnations grew, only does your breath turn tragic, turning poetic, when love struck jewels emerge, careful fingers touch the rubies, and this is all the power I have, to only lament words I cannot fathom and trace the fall over and over till only golden ichor flows anew.

We're drifting through the memories until we become the memoirs ourselves.

Flying kisses are like such a cute and soft thing :(

what is it we find so dark and murky in the universe that we can't find in our silly synapses?

I like to know that I've maimed you. Is it sadistic of me to like the thought of you wondering where I am every time you cross a road? I like to know that I've maimed you, ever since you told me anything related to books reminds you of me. I like to know that every time there are scribbles in the margin of an old book, It'll remind you of my handwriting you called unreadable. If you visit The Louvre, my blood remains spilt there too, for the countless number of times I've told you about running away to France. Every time you look at paintings hung up in museums, you'll think of how I painted you our bleeding hearts. Is it sadistic to know you'll think of how I am doing on your thirty second birthday because I jokingly told you how I felt like I wouldn't make it to blow the candles on my thirtieth? Is it sadistic of me to cherish how you'll think of me every time you pick up a book, even when you're covered with sun spots and gray? tell me, would it make you wonder what could've been, if you wrote us just a bit differently? for I know that I've maimed you darling, but is it sadistic of me to not regret it at all?

Feverishly romantic how the dead are depicted by the sudden fall, a thud yet graceful fall of an utterly blue veined hand. The last blink, and the mechanical writer stops, as if a last wave to the living, sleeping on the bed when your longed lover lies on the floor, an earthly blanket over their serene sleep, a hand falls when leaving quite unconsciously towards the beloved. Its as if gravity aids the newly departed to rejoin their dead, the hand now closer to the earthly buried, where their waiting lover lies, crept over with flowery vines like snakes and brown contoured skin. The thud of a hand, dangling from the bed, now so much closer in seconds than they had been in years.

I’ve died so many deaths Just in this one life The pause between the beats Long enough, to make me question If you would curse me for pausing time Every time you said that you were mine And if I died then No other place so apt As when the stars would rather prefix If I died only then, You would’ve loved me for an entire life What tragedy is death, when I get the pick the forever I most yearn for? Nostalgia wouldn’t send its tariff for I would’ve been buried, and you would’ve been there at the funeral, And maybe for once, the grief would corrode your heart, And maybe for once I could ask you to stay, when after all there’s no one you could leave.

you said i spoke like a poet,

and yet when i try to write,

your name is what spills out of my lips.

blood dripping from your lips like sweet poison, hands shaking (who's hands are steady after a crime?). I kiss away every drop, each a seed of a pomegranate against my lips. I consume your sin, as if it were mine. my hands steady yours, and I help you hide. after all, what are we, if not partners in crime?

As I flick through my camera roll, isn't it strange how everything is out of focus but you? How the blood you spilt seems brighter than the blood I shed?