Room 511

05/11/2016/Sat
07.32

Ten days ago, you mumbled that it's hard to swallow the fact that I'm not as warm as your Moroccan sunset.
Not as pure as your Icelandic snow, not as delicate as your,
Your Alaskan home.
But your gaze is still locked against my neck, hands on my lungs, whispering syllables, ruining colours.
And you haven't stopped popping your thin skin infront of my teeth because you think I'm a monster in heat.
Even when I'm holding crosses close to my throat and reading you finest words about jewels and rhinestones;
You still think that my time with you is a battleground, yet you don't want to go to war.
But suddenly you whispered that the moment is here, that we should go until violence disappears just because your don't want to fall asleep to the sound of destruction infront of your door.
You lingered in my arms saying that it was the first time for you to dig graves and throwing fireworks, but it felt like like you're a funeral director ready to excavate Egyptian charms from my casket.
You, you brought me back to July where you drew lines between my eyes and told me that it's not alright to dig the ground before you're ready to die.
Tell that to the sunrise who watched us slowly falling to the flame of nirvana, baptised by the sweet holy water of hell. Tell that to yourself when you told me that our home is a paradise whose skies were the colour of hell flames as if I didn't know who you were referring to.
As mad as I am, the sun is still up and I don't want to go out, cause for the first time in my life, everything feels right.

Let's do it all over again.