You always make me nervous, the way you grope around the margins of mourning words with your summer soft voice running through the streams of cherry pink syllables, your fingers leaving quiet scars on the frame of letters, melting like sun burned chocolate with heartbreak.
You are the slightly elegant, smart best friend of loneliness, the enemy of expression and violence, and the lingering sister of darkness. You make boys like me and girls like me cry under slouching eyelids, our bodies hanging dry on straying electric currents as the thunder strikes up deadly conversations with our brittle bones, mouth bent sharp like barbed wire scars.
You're always there when I don't need you, and almost never there when asked, peaking from the silhouette of your mother - emptiness. I rather don't hate you as much as I should and sometimes you can even be nice, I suppose, your fingers laced with yellow petaled sympathy.
You live below gravestones with your father death and sometimes I sit with you, reading you mute eulogies with your eyes scanning through fake newspaper articles, hands rubbing against your bruised smile. Silence is golden they say, but you are drained of color, smearing against the grey of yesterday.
You are the after-shock of Ragnorock or Armaggendon and the slip of in music. I feel the string of your guitar break against the sneering feel of your fingernails and your voice breaks at your lungs. You are so unpoetic, darling and it's something that suits you and me.
I don't know how to explain this. Series of letters, somewhat - connected, somewhat.