(a poetry book)
Darling, are we foreign in time, or often overlooking the love we held for one another? the hush of the aftermath; sinks into your skin deeper than my staples, the chasm of my voice, that alerts the pool between your legs. lover of i, was i a lover of you, or a distant stranger?
there is a devil on your shoulder, who doesn't understand, that we're alone together, in mori's playground. but this is the tragedy of love, when we end up beholding and withdrawing, and end up in a swift tune of memento mori.
welcome, to the depth of every 'i hate you', and every suppressed 'i love you'.
after all, we're wishing upon a fault star, my one.
A book for the lost, for love, for the pain; for you.