Sunday, November 11, 2018

A Sunday That Isn't, Really

Petals crash onto the marble-tiled floor --
A broken plan made of shattered love.
The color of spring stains the ground
and washing it away would only erase the sting.

When water floods my view
am I watering the blossoms in my chest
or diluting a poisonous concentration
meant for only me to drink?

My dear, we are falling
upside down, so maybe it is flying,
but that doesn't change the fact
that I feel like I'm falling sometimes.

I never thought that the Strokes could make me cry,
but today they did.
Static creeps above the silence
and I breathe to kiss it away.



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