Pin me to the sun, I begged you once. And you took me to your sky. You showed me eternity burning, blown autumn with the cinders of perdition.

In the hours when you sleep, I lie awake. The loss of you still wrapped around me in blankets. I am scattered, the edges of my mind blurred and rubbed out. The parade of me called off. Switched off. Temper the sound of my breath. My heart beat. I dream of ghosts, fevered and recycled demons, clawing Marley at my door. Flicking channels, I seek out my own fear in cinematic nightmares. Another autopsy of death drawn scarlet on snow. Another scream of innocence, muted down to 4am. I am cold. Disenchanted by the mechanics of terror. I hold a spyglass to catch the light of dead stars, but that smoke in soft curls still burns. When you sleep. Sometimes, I miss your silence more than your words.

And all that is left of me is the scent of roses, on your skin.

 

 

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13 thoughts on “The scent of roses

  1. “Sometimes I miss your silence more than your words” – I absolutely love that line. Interesting piece as always – excellent stuff.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. So much poetry here for such a short piece. It feels very inspired. I admire the way you convey emotion with flashes of imagery that seem very personal yet are so easy for the reader to relate to.

    Liked by 1 person

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