names

when they said his name, I didn’t think of the way his hand touched mine. for a second I forgot about the words I spit from my mouth when his tried to taste my tongue. no, I thought of when he spoke your name and asked what I saw in you. I remember that night you kept me safe when his hungry eyes saw me as nothing more than a mouse to chase. I may not remember that night, but I’ll never forget that in my darkest hours you were my light. I was the match and you were my flame. now you’re nothing but a burned out wick and I’m smoke in the wind. memories of us have began to fade but I’ll never forget how we burned together.

dear god, we could have set the world on fire.

it was never real.. was it

The memory of you is a soft yellow hue, meaning somewhere in the pain and suffering you’ve brought comfort. Unfortunately, the yellow has been burning blue. Like the flame in my chest that has always been for you, too hot to touch but that’s something I knew. 

I knew you would go, I knew it too well. That’s something I learned long before I fell. Falling for you was like a soft landing view on the pillows of your bed when I held onto you. I desperately want to create more memories with you, but you’re gone.

You’re gone, you’re gone. 

Almost as though repeating it will drive the thought through my head. Yet I always set myself up with hope and am met with disappointment when I’m left with the realization that I’m always alone. I’ve always been alone. You’re something I’ve conjured up in hopes of being real..

When the only thing that’s real about this is how much you’ve made me feel.

red

Does the river run red?
Is it soft like the burning of your bloodshot eyes?
Is it wrong of me
to want to wander along the riverbed,
hoping to fall in?
Red rivers can’t stain what’s already covered in the stain of something that’s bled.

My taste for danger is never
satisfied,
which led to my spitting of
words late at night.
Only this time I’m unsure if you’ll return.

Did my words burn like the
feeling of flame to skin?
If so I’m familiar with
the singe left behind.
Touching the wound will never let it heal,
I’m not worried about that.
I’m worried that I can’t feel.
Take my advice, leave it be and I’ll try to do the same.

I’ll find a taste of danger elsewhere, away from your pain.