You crossed my mind on Monday,
too late to recall the remains of a burning flame that once kept me warm,
I woke up cold,
recalling the sweet shyness of your voice as you told me that you’d got glasses.
I recall the last time we talked,
like no time had passed at all,
like I had never broken your heart,
like you hadn’t kept a segment of my soul within yours for all these years.
but my life decided not to decline into the rags and pumpkins of the past,
because I used to be your princess,
and I like that you still treat me like I wear a tiara.
Do not give your love to gargoyles.
They gaze with awe and envy from their stony, storied homes but they will spend their nights tearing at your flesh,
staring into your eyes as they feast on your feelings,
a mere appetiser for what they’ll do to your entrails.
They never learned table manners,
and all you are to them is a trophy,
destined to stay, stuck in grey nightmares,
never feeling the sweetness of the sun’s rays again.
It’s true that the ugliest creatures do the ugliest things,
and you are so beautiful,
so when they call your name,
fix your eyes on the flowers that spring up all around you,
and do not let those enchanting eyes stray above the shoulders of your destiny.
I thought of blue oceans and grey clouds as I passed the palace where I first kissed my latest unhappy ending.
We held hands outside of the hospital where I was born,
and he told me that the glow of my eyes made him feel frail and far too old,
so I took the ribbons from my hair and tied his mouth to mine,
an endless kiss that would silence his statements,
which may be correct,
but were inconvenient.
His voice is hauntingly familiar.
I’ve heard it before,
because he’s been mine before,
so now I’m getting familiar again with the ghost of heartbreaks past,
and her endless drone about how it could all be done any second.
My sweet, sane sunshine.
You never stay. My eyes close,
and you become smoke.
His eyes remind me of my skin,
and when he looks at me,
it is like staring at a version of myself that I have yet to grow tired of.
When he is tired,
he speaks to me in his language,
as if I will automatically understand him,
correcting himself when my face contorts in confusion,
a gentle kiss,
where his lips linger,
as if he could fall asleep there and then,
inside my arms,
with his lips on mine.
When his lips are on mine,
I hear what he is saying,
clearly and without need for translation.
It thrills me,
it frightens me,
because if he means what he says,
maybe I will finally be home.