i still dedicate a piece of my soul to you, my love
my skin yearns the warmth of yours, i'm drunk and somber
but i'm cold without you here now (like a broken thing seeking tragedy)
i miss the way you'd curl around me, a corpse of divinity
and your fingertips still stroke my hair on occasion
i feel them, even now, years beyond my time
i'm still the same man, a fiend
far too overprotective of something terrible
the lava of your dew heart haunts me, liquidating my mind
i don't know how much farther i'll go with your spirit lingering behind
and i'll search for you perhaps in the afterlife, dear
among the sandy waves in our heaven
we built it for each other, i remember
perhaps then we can finally feel real
a morbid thing turned good — xx
YOU ARE READING
These Fruits of Boyhood
PoetryA man's fight with the gods always ends in bloodshed. Thus a man's fight with himself always ends in despair. something of a contemplation poetry, perhaps *unedited
