ur sleeping on the couch

extensive biology metaphors & the moon

i listen to psychedelic indie rock and only the moon knows the truth behind my name. hesitant, halting hands reach for mine in hopes to hold and shelter, then flinch away when they notice the chill, the cold. the corrosive nature of my touch is not one to mess with.

i do not lie when i say i walk like a song and sound like a storybook, tell me about my soul and i'll write poetry about yours. play me my favorite song and i will waltz out yours.

you will wish upon the sun that you'd never have met me, never intertwined your lungs in my toxic air. you will feel the burn in your trachea down the ridges of your bronchioles into the oxygen-deficient alveoli, yearning  for whatever breath your mouth can gasp within the last moments of your life. you will wonder how you managed to taste this poison only after it was too late;

the time chose to deceive you. you're running on a clockwork frame and only once you suffer do you realize you have no organs for me to set ablaze, you're just as dead as i am. your nimble fingers connected by bronze knuckles grasp at your metal throat and you realize in a haze that you aren't as real as you thought you were.