Our story is made of arsenic laced kisses
And bitter bites on the edges of our lips.
Your soul was the green of new morning grass,
A brilliant emerald that I couldn’t perceive,
So you altered it to a glimmering violet
Made from sunrise evenings and ceiling fan songs.
We couldn’t make the train, rushing off its tracks,
So why didn’t we decide to walk?
It’s because long car-rides full of music of metal men
Is just so much better when you’re there.
If we had to be artisans, I’d be a upside-down lava cake-
-Sweet, sure, but definitely a hot mess-
And you’d be the walnut and peanut butter fudge,
Clinging to my lips even after you’re gone.
So why is that when I try to tell myself
That maybe we aren’t built for white picket fences
with 16-going-on-17 mediocre dates,
I want to convince myself that, maybe,
2 a.m. skype calls and blurry text
Seen through teary filters
Will be enough to be the panacea to our poison?