Wish

Melancholia

 

So many people. So few lovers. Dying children and black cats that claw at my ankles. Between the bars, you blink with pouting lips expecting a kiss, yet my eyes are drawn to a giraffe pissing blood on a field of dead sunflowers. It’s not gruesome. It’s just a slice of life to keep these veins from collapsing through boredom and despair. Car journeys in the dark with the windows wound down. Infinite lights and broken landscapes where the taste of thunder electrifies with every stolen heartbeat. It’s in the dress you wear that ends up on my bedroom floor. It’s in the way the soles of your feet press against my thighs as we sleep. Cracked ice in the rings around my eyes. Fingernails sinking into your wrists as I claim what I want without reply. Waves of guilt and self-disgust as morning takes me away. On the horizon as outlines of the girl you once were dance with abandon, the world spins indifferently. Wastelands of shame. Cigarettes in flowerpots. Bottles of beer lobbed into dying lakes. Such a pointless exercise. Such a game of pricks. Mountains and whores as we lay in silence waiting for the air in our lungs to run out. Those beads you wear around your neck, take them off and feed them to me one by one. Those shadows that lurk deep inside. Just a boy looking for a girl to call his own. Just a kid with too much lust and not enough words. Time can’t change me, but I can change time. Let me take it apart. Let me dissolve its meaning as you lurk at the foot of the bed with a look in your eyes that tells me there’s still so much to see despite what’s already been before. Dreams of cancer. Sleepless nights wishing for your body against mine. That body so shapeless. So slender in my wicked grasp.

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