The sad…sad, midnight, purple blood laying beneath the flesh of my right hand sits dead. The discoloring makes me think about the age of being me and the crookedness OF IT ALL. I saw myself anywhere but here. And now I can only see myself …there, at my next kiss.

I imagine lips, nothing but strangers lips, slowly moving towards me as I await the sense of such foreign touch. Awaiting the feel of an enduring chill and the spill of a tear that was over due on its cry, It’s happening and I can barely gasp air. I’ll pull away and breathe for compusure. With my head tilted back, waiting for the current leader of love to move back in for more, I’ll stare with such darkness into the eyes that I wish to keep shut.

 I’ll kiss back like I’m lost, like I’ve been so desperate for inches of effort.

I’ll try to forget the dead blood that lingers my knuckle. I’ll try to forget how cynical my thoughts have become. I’ll try to forget how worthless this kiss will be tomorrow.

…THEN

our lips wearily depart far into wasted space. I’ll wipe my mouth with the back of my disabled hand. I’ll look at the spit of our kiss lingering the surface of my hand.

GHOST HAND.

dark, Dead, BLOOD. What’s it like to kiss a ghost? 

///

Nothing can awake the moments of the died out lingering past. The last time never wanted it to be the last.  The first is always the first and the last… is …the thought of your cold lips on mine once more, nothing but a daydream. The last is… simply the last, with a gentle touch of hope and a disturbing manipulated ignorance, “try to remember to forget.” Hope lives longer than anything had ever lasted, which kills, but it’s still there, your still there. It’s the patronizing thoughts of your soft everything, the solitary that was missing, the natural touches through the night, your cold cold lips I cannot fail to think of. I’d doubtfully go along with it if you came closer like before.