(no subject)

Concrete coloured clouds loom overhead, imposing limits and shielding the sky from my anxious and hopeful eyes. The world tastes like ash. When I look into the distance I see you sleeping far away, your dark, curling eyelashes resting against your porcelain pale face. My fingers ache to know your body, to touch where ink lies beneath the skin, hypnotising, entrancing. I press my lips to the bewitching marks, but I can't taste the ink.
I press my lips to your beatiful scars, but I can't taste the pain.
My tongue burns with lies and longing, and everything but you is vanity and hubris.

(no subject)

You, the other, my contrast. Believe these sometime trecherous lips when they tell you you'll never sink as low as second best. I crave hatred, but you're simply too perfect. Love and hate don't seem that distant, and at least I knew that pain.