3.01

Skeletal hands reach up to the sky,
Whiter than a dead body,
And colder than the most frigid marble under bare feet.
If I could reach your hands and collide
With all of the stars that make up your
Transparent skin full of sins,
I would be engaging in sensory debauchery.

But I am just another pull from your flask,
Amber misconceptions that spin when you walk.
Each footstep wrecks the marble of the dead bodies,
Wreaking havoc upon the graveyard of the lawn,
That was once so green and untainted.
They’ll bury you in here,
The same place, the same way, the same broken cry.

You wear a cloak constructed of pieces
Of the hearts that you have collected,
Yet you still do not have a whole one
To call your own, “your conquest.”
Your own heart is comparable to a Dali –
A reference to time and experience,
But a loss of all reality.

All I am is
The snow under your boots,
The flush in your cheeks,
The blood oozing through your veins,
The ideas sewn to the folds of your brain,
The ash of your cigarette.
You said you were quitting, but you can’t quit everything.

I am everything, a reminder, a lock on your thoughts.