The Gasoline Orchid
Date: Jun 13th, 2006 12:24:26 pm - Subscribe
Mood: regretful
It's my haunting, an orchid made of gasoline.
sweet, yet bitter with loss. My silouette of what was on what would never hault and never be.
It's a stolen perfume, ideal for a funeral now.
Placed upon my sweating skin every now and then as it was hers.
A subtle reminder.
To lose her just as you find her.
Slowly.
It's a face, a moment. Like her cold mouth on a sweltering day or a soft cheek beneath aching fingers.
Her perspiration like rain,
pure like petrol. And her eyes, ripe with love and suicide. They observed the world below my brow not five inches,
And I enthrawled by an iris.
It was a morning, now a mourning of sorts.
The dwelling of my now perfect stranger
My visits and lies short lived,
with long reprecussions.
Comments: (1)
true_audio - June 15th, 2006 |
