Mithridatism

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,

Just maybe,

2 a.m. skype calls and blurry text

Seen through teary filters

Will be enough to be the panacea to our poison?

 

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