I picked up my journal in a drunk stupor one night and this is what I discovered (with some spelling/grammar corrections, of course)
I think I was reflecting on past love(r)s...
- - -
I'm suspended on an ocean of red,
kissing black holes and having empty conversations
with stained coffee cups.
Scrawling observations with erasers
on the back of old receipts
and killing old optimism with blanks.
Lovers like us pass on slowly,
drowning in loyalty.
Stubble budding above a shuddering lip,
we are lashing across the table, aiming for the heart.
But what is to "die" anyway?
I'm being asphyxiated by a self-replicating system
that is voice activated.
Black nail polish caressing smoker’s teeth,
I'll pound this perfume bottle into your throat
and leave you suffocating on pheromones.
Kiss the morphine off my lips, lover.
I crave you like an amputation.
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