The Wound of My Lips

I miss a word

to call your melancholy.

I fight for this bloody sadness

that I borrowed

from God.

I feel sorry for a whisper

that would be louder

than a cry for help.

Your caress is painful,

you gave it to me on the day

of my death.

Love still teases me,

a storm of invincible desires

has unleashed,

unhealthy fantasies take away

a funny, bizarre tear from me.

It's not worth crying

when the sky is so painfully scarlet.

Lonely words nurture

the wound of my lips.

Reviews

[Chris]

May I... touch behind such eyes? Should I... I don't know how deeply the flavor pervades... just that I 'taste' burnt copper and such salt.