If I could kill you

I would

and when the time comes

I will

tear

down

your

bedroom

with you inside

cover you with Kerosene

and burn you alive

Why not?

He spoke and everything was beautiful. He was a heavenly creature with a diamond mind. For a moment when he talked, you forgot that evil was even possible, and it wasn’t boring, it was priceless. Maybe you could even learn to love him one day. Maybe, during the rare times when neither of you feared the other, you already did.

He was a damned, dirty sinner. There was no hope for him, but there was still hope for you. Secretly you pasted away your memories, how awful he was. How sharp and bitter and devastatingly intriguing. Alone you dreamed of him, wishing for solace. But maybe, he never really was quite that horrid.

You came from the heavens,

I do not believe in heaven.

Soft as snow, you speak in whispers,

cold as snow, I speak in tongues.

Clear like ice, you could not know,

sharp like ice, is all I know.

Your mouth is cold; it’s closed too much.

My mouth is cold,

from the bitter sting, of November.

In the dark,

I dreamt of June.

In the deep, turbulent waters,

surrounded by the murky, ocean floor,

I dreamt of June.

Choking on obsession and drowning in hate,

I dreamt of June.

To see the surface,

the seafoam,

the sky.

To feel the air.

I dreamt of June.

Of things gentle and free,

of paper lanterns and sleepy nights,

of the fading moon and the distant sea.

Choking on air and drowning in the stars,

Is what I imagine June must be.

My summer friend,

I loved you once.

But it’s been a while now,

the times have changed and I’ve changed with it.

So have you.

I wish I cared enough,

to figure you out.

You truly are a puzzle.

But are you really?

Or is it just me,

has it always been just me?

Why don’t I trust a thing you say?

I’ll ask you when I see you,

when I see you next July.

In the dead of August,

the lazy, painful days of August.

Or the quiet, blissful days of August,

you can hear the locusts,

even in the night.

You can see the sandstorms,

even on the coast.

You can smell the flowers,

even if they’re burning.

You can feel the summer,

even if you’re dead.

When the starry days of June have past,

and July has tricked you with it’s heat.

And august has come,

leaving it’s share of scars and scorching the ground with its fire.

In the heat of the sun,

a sliver of frost.

Taming the flames,

cooling the heat,

soothing the burns.

Though fall comes with it’s own price,

I’m still waiting for September.

The bitter air tears through your lungs and assaults your hair, leaving your cheeks stinging as you gasp for a proper breath. The eastern wind exhales once more. You take a moment to observe the horizon, if you can call it that. The ashy, endless ocean and pale sky blend together almost perfectly, creating a hazy visage that twires before your very eyes. Still, there is a glitch between sea and sky, a fine line of pallid sun that separates the ocean from its god.

Before the achromatic skyline, a small harbor can be seen, laid out before you, almost beckoningly. The trembling waters rock the old sailboats and splintering docks with a nervous care, mindful not to disturb the fragile tranquility. Looming to one side of you is a tall university. Perhaps on a brighter evening it could seem almost inviting, but from this perspective it is simply a twilit block of shadows and cement.

Behind you lies the uphill suburbs of a quaint place, which you may have once called home. The tiny lights in the tiny houses and London town esque street lamps line the amateurly planned road, which leads unsuspecting victims to their destination of scenic tourist traps and gift shops.

The caustic breeze begins to pick up as you finally decide on departing. The air is salty and ripe with the distinct smell of a fishing pier. Stifling the urge to cover your nose, you sluggishly drag yourself uphill.

The true lifelessness of this quiet place begins to dawn on you as you make your way past the seasonal shoppe’s and various bland inns. There is nothing, nobody, around now. No smothered laughter, innocent banter, headlights gleaming down the boulevard, or even cigarette smoke, curling steadily towards the darkening sky.

In this quiet place, there isn’t much to do but wait. Wait for your lover or wait for your death, no one knows the difference anyway.