You stand by the window with black lips

So the fallen just keep falling;

and the lies,

just keep crawling

across my arm like the rats that you kept in silver cages.

I think that I'm mixing it all up (again)

like the remainder

and the reminder

of you

and me

as we should be;

or that on-going nightmare

that leaves me wide awake in the middle of the night

and lets my eye lids droop while I work,

or go to school-

did you know that I would destroy the world if I had it in the palm of my hand,

I would want the silence

for us

all

rather

then peace

for just one.

I've never written about how you came to me in the middle of the night,

glowing milky white,

or how

when you put your hand on me my skin turned purple-

ghosts are so cold that they burn me;

and you said:

"how are you?"

and I couldn't stop starring at your black lips,

(you were so simple,

like five years could incinerate like acid and time meant nothing-

do ghosts un-reminded live through time?)

lilac freaks,

and,

rose petals,

or how when you crawled on top of me I didn't cry out,

like I did the first time that you pushed hard against me

with a pearly cigarette between your middle and index finger.

The kiss from your banshee lips

left imprints and handprints,

your transparent heat left scars that I've never shown to anyone.

"Are you alright?"

You ask

and my lips quake

earth shattering

shake;

take me with you (when you leave again)

because I need your silence

I miss it like

I miss you

and your cold fingers

inside of me.

And when you crawl inside,

I shutter from the freeze

but stay silent

and remember how you can move in all the right directions

- drive me off the

c.

l.

i.

f.

f.

and fall into me again.

I don't believe in redemption

but you whisper in my ear that peace is waiting for me on the other side of the door,

even the whore is kissed like a little girl in heaven.

And you still make love

(like the sixteen year old that I remember)

with your leather jacket on,

and as you grind

I think that I would love to be the leather that stretches across your back.

I want to go with you when you leave this time,

but

instead

I just stare at your black lips and whisper:

"I'm

sorry;

I was

so young

when

I

mixed

my

youth

with

your experience

and

soured you

and me

and mixed

everything

that existed

in between

the seam of threads

that I painted on canvas like I could be good at color combinations one day.

We're monochromatically damned spirits

and when you cum its like lace is inside of me again,

phantomish lace,

and there's no pain on your face anymore

but I still trace the line of you

to try and find the beginning

(which I never do)

and together,

like ghost's we turn lies into truth.

We're used to each other

-I get that now-

"I was with you when it happened!"

And I burst into tears like a child

and cry against your leather-

leather and lace (that's us)-

(you cannot escape calumny baby girl;

but I hovered over you when you stopped breathing-

looking at my red energy on the pavement-

I don't know what I looked like when I was on the ground

(I think at that point I was hovering)

still driving to work with the radio on,

unaware,

but still scared enough to jump from my body)

"Don't worry"

and you put your palm on my breast and kiss me

(kisses that burned my lips years ago; I had forgotten what fire tasted like until now)

and I think back to the fortune teller that you paid ten dollars to, to read my palm-

how

she

said

that I would be the mother

of both son's

and daughter's

but they wouldn't be yours-

and I think, shit she was right.

I can't stand it when you leave,

every time

its like my soul

slipping out of my fingertips

the only thing that I have of you is the dream that keeps me up at night

and the smoke

the fills the air

(you filter it through lungs that don't breath anymore

and then divide it's scent across my walls

so that days later I will suddenly

smell it

and

be

reminded

of you.)

I can't move back in time

to those days again and fix

the broken shit:

"I have to go;"

you say (your all whispers now)

"but I can hear you when you write."

"I like

the poems

that you write about me"

and you cover yourself with me;

so cold that my fingertips are numb for days;

and by the time you disappear your white

has turned back to your monochromatic grays.