He meshed two
dreams of colorful
prisms into play-doh
walls of a broken heart.
like torn tapestry of
courage suffocating
under the pacifier of
an apple moon.
Still...
I can’t lick
stars because
they cry your name.
arranged by internal
sunrise, to cower
as they part the sight
from gleaming eyes.
delirious are the sounds,
breaking a winters snow,
crisp is his breath with a
frost bitten tone.
while I swallow his
ice to melt the insides
of crimson tunnels. to pace
my beat, with the spirit of his ghost.
And I lay in the beauty of mystic fog,
as if enclosed in your arms, instead of suffocating in your death.
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