Your face suffocates in the smell of beauty, and erotica, and ripping memories, bed sheets torn around your body, his soft, Venus mouth sticking between your neck, coiled green lipstick pastey to your skin. You taste like melting gun powder and wring bullets, you suppose, and he can't get the taste of war and lost hope out of his mouth, never had, never will. Like falling down rabbit holes alone, and you brush back his wounds with slick fiction lies that never stick.

I love you, you choke out, and choke out, and choke, the red lucid drops of funeral and death cascading down your reptilian lips, like falling into smoke-reduced redemption. Hands riffing between right and wrong, like sinking in hypocritical indecency and below his kisses you can feel him smile, feel his streams of emotions pouring into your veins like cocaine, like cigarettes and tar, the bittersweet agony of a fading hallucination, an bad illusion, a sinking masquerade.

I don't fall in love with people who are always leaving, he states nevervously, his eyes beating for his heart like something exotic and shifting, like faraway countries and cynical delusions.

Yeah, I know, you muse softly, whisper, between the steam of radiating tears cornering on your half-open lids, drowning July down your throat. Dissolving lilacs and laughing fireworks, blue and red and white and you never felt like less of a hero, heart bursting at your lungs, black and red and decaying with roaches. August is coming with sadistic laughter and you can't get the feeling of murder out of your head, hands sliding across the trigger.

Author's Note:
I don't know. Inspired by what some boy I didn't know called me before, but you'd never guess and this doesn't make sense with the name. It's short and probably doesn't get to the point and too much the same as everything else I ever wrote and I'll probably delete it later. I'm just giving up poetry for a bit, a bit, even though I'm worst at fiction.