Saturday, November 29, 2014

the last poem i will ever write for you

lipstick smeared
city skylines
faded tans
this is the way the world ends

burning bushes
thatched roofs
white moonlight
this is the way the world ends

not with a bang
with a whimper

maybe in a new world
the sight of your name wouldn't make me vomit
you wouldn't leave an impression
your hands wouldn't fit in mine

broken glass
bleached hair
calloused hands
this is the way the world ends

your hands in my hair
on my waist
you are the way the world ends
we are the way the world ends