Mirrors Made Out Of Salt
Your last mellow tone of your voice would echo in my blazed lungs, a sound that was like our last phone call, a war of purgatory and white lies that floods my veins with blood & slaughter, perhaps that it was the purge, a phase of bloody clothes and unfamiliar worn shadows. You'd utter like a broken radio, i felt your vocal chords get louder and louder like the rural towns where kids would steal bread, an innocent smile & a euphoria touch in their teary-eyed life that hides them from the sad reality, a chapter of crumpled newspapers and mud-stained clothes.
I would give up a puff of cigarette for your suffocating breath that tarnishes my trachea, crimson embers form under the galaxy fragments of my floating existence that is inside your sapphire eyes. Your arms carries forest fires, you cradle each and every dried autumn leaves that had been washed from the past season yet still my existence is burned out, like the dry leaves in autumn.
I'd give up books for your words, it feels different having to study your utters and broken accents in just a single page, your mouth would be like an empty shelf, and your fragmented thoughts are old books. I would bask your doorstep just to read you.
I treasure you like how you cradle dried leaves just to burn them.