guava achings ✓

14

he took a stroll between the lines that spoke inflaming stories of her withering soul- amidst the loose strings that tethered her heart refusing to let it beat- myrtle roots that bathed in oceans of aegean - but the merlot was lovely.

fabrics of tangerines and bananas envelope it fragilely as though the unpublished chapters and drafts of hell-breaking trauma may ooze out of her blemished wounds. were they band-aids or cancer sticks? she was a peculiar being in his book of petite wonders.

and there were waves of adrenaline crashing against the shallow ribs- begging for her chili-flaked flesh to pulse once or twice- he made her a little too feverish. she had preferred semi-solitary with sleep demons and dark voids in mind-mansions- a little bit of his feather touch on her calloused skin.

but then it beats from beneath his feet as she reached out toward the sky full of stars- and so he realize that all along she was but a mere door-mattress for his blatant lies and faulty confessions. he wondered if she was beating or just beaten- and so, like the maniac he was- he burnt down his deceased lover and kept her ashes for safe-keeping.

then on a july morning- three hours after the clouds had cried a little and the skies had screamed the glorified violence out the crevices of their hearts- he shall open that stitched pocket resting on his toy heart and let her ashes kiss the chlorine breeze and submerge into the currents that shall mourn to tether her handsome soul into their tainted depths.

she belonged to the beds of the deepest oceans and pink clouds glorifying the death of withering moons- she had never belonged to him.