the slow art of breathing bitter

Sweet Dreams

Everything's so sweet about you,

how soft and sweet.

Soft like an evening melody through purple scars,

and sweet like dark caramel through your lips.

It builds up, not in a rush,

but like slow-dancing love and pain

in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green.

Your quick, fluttery breaths

send my thoughts into overdrive.

My razor cuts don't make my arms ache anymore;

it's cold outside, but I can feel the sudden warmth.

The blue walls around me

now threaten to burst into your exploding heat.

Everything about you is desire,

oh, sweet desires.

You're my dark silhouette in the dim light

of snowy winters and sunflower summers.

A symphony of rheumatic love;

we're slow-dancing with agony.

But the desires have always been lifelessly alive.

Everything about you is as tender as a hallucinatory murmur;

nothing like black-and-white romance.

When it is the scent of lemongrass,

you smell dusty winter afternoons and fruity erasers,

and taste like heaven.

And I loved that, as only a seventeen-year-old soul can love.

But I know how it tastes at times in the mornings

after we fight at midnight—

A handwritten note, a few roses,

your favorite song, and glittering poems.

A smudged lipstick kiss at one corner before the daylight dies.

Everything about you is a blue-black mystery,

with a shade of maroon and grey.

But it's sweet as aspartame like chapped secrets.

Happiness is splashed into large puddles.

You aren't any metaphor or symphony

but beats of craving love—slow and tender

like the falling stars.

An absurd mixture of white and blue paints

that get washed away in mid-winter rains.

Like wasted bodies behind the crumbling walls of grief.

Everything about you burns every inch of my body—

in the violet whispers, colored smoke, 

burning albums and withered lilies.

The cigarette smoke rolls away to the

crashing waves of blooming pain.

It's four a.m., scattered with beautiful mirages

and numbing heartbreaks.

Our mirror image gets crushed under the loud

thumps of tall men and giggling women.

But I know you remain to be the bleak portrait in charcoal

that I gaze at every night before

going to bed and erasing all my thoughts

with the bluegrass tune.

I keep fading away in the burning edges,

and you whisper, "we've got this."

Remember how we almost got it

'til we burnt our like falling stars and stayed like that

in the mourning silence.

No beauty, no fascination—dreams and drowning sanity.

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A/N: No matter what, stars are pretty. Let's vote for them.