seven seven

six are fine.

on the seventh you

fall apart.

a sickly moist breeze sticks to your face-

treacherous, treacherous.

she names who she loves and

it's not you.

there was something warm about the way

hope used to taste on my tongue, the way she

melted and glided softly across the edge of

my mouth-

i miss her when it rains.

times escapes like sand through my fingers.

i inhale the rot in my flesh like sawdust watch my

bones fester like an ancient wound.

guilt seeps in through the pores of my skin and

i bleed i bleed i bleed.

i dream of strange lands

of a monstrosity and a massacre on the street

of gods and their wrath

of shakespeare and a summer's day

of azure oceans and a thai sky

of the lover and the beloved.

of profound love and the sheer banality of its loss.

of warm hope and the ease with which it dies.

it is morning and it is raining still

a sickly moist breeze sticks to your face.

your mouth tastes of a soft realisation left over

from last night.

it is always this.

the lover and the beloved.