Pages

I've read too much of loved and love lost.
It breaks my heart in a way,
nausea in a sense of heartache.
Remember my role is to only see myself in the mirrors of trees
and their sacrificed vain arms of branches to egos of raging fire.
I've never cared much for the tip of your tongue
hips to hands and never hearts.
Think about it before you reoccur.
You are the fine frenzy on slipping teeth,
dripping blood of calendars that have lost count of days.
A soft whisper of numbers on the palm of my hand,
all that is left is blue ink and the smear of your name.