SOME TIMES I IMAGINE THE FUTURE (AND SOMETIMES I IMAGINE YOU)

Innocent lips
are a dangerous habit,
and hard kisses
are an acquired taste
leaving your mouth
my favourite shade of
red (until now).
Indifference is a slow-death
that we keep speeding-up,
and destruction is a desire
that never really goes away—
we suck out all the fresh, minty marrow
from the bones of each perfect goodbye,
so we could kiss sweeter,
and break
into the thousand pieces
we hide under
every stranger’s pillowcase
like a vanished one-point-perspective.
Thoughts—
spilled open,
Bodies—
refusing to stop,
the evening star grinds the sky
like a fixed gear
but it’s our fingers
that are orbiting
towards a blue-beginning future
of a not-quite second past.
We’re two cloudless skies facing each other,
and all the printable colours of fucking.

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