Through hungover eyes the room is tilting
having lost ourselves in the space between
the parting of lips and friends; so long, farewell
(Wouldn't you like to know) I cut my finger on a knife
turning me obsessive-compulsive with each passing moment.
We stand and inhale monoxide by the road while overhead
skies stretch towards infinity. Lean over so I can small the acetone
on your wineglass fingers; it's not so much betrayal
as never really having had it to begin with.
Let me tell you a secret:
just between you and me
the party's over. There, a flash of passion red
the sound of shadows departing. Autumn is pretty enough, but dead leaves are just that,
The summer has ended, and we are not saved.
(in the bathroom I found bloodstains and an epiphany
cupped hands numb—
I'm running on empty and writing my own demise—
with the absence of you.)
A/n: one week and thrice-edited and still doesn't begin to say half the things I'd like it to say, but it's a start.