letter from a dying star, II.

There you go, interrupting my dreams once again.
[not the dreams, the sleep]
Somehow when you're asleep next to me, you still manage to find my fingers and lace them with yours.

You make me more forgiving, more lovely.

Every exhale that escapes my red-tinted lips is filled with bitterness,
every inhale is sweet intoxication,
my willing poison-your sweet, earthy, clean smell.

Salt-laced running-shoes drip puddles that make my socks wet
[I have never cared for the scraps anyway]
and your chest beckons for my frozen palms.
[I told you I was cold-blooded]

I cherish the moments when I pull away from your calm face
and you have glitter from my eyelids in your eyelashes;
mascara on your tee shirt.
When I pull away, I alway know that I have made a lasting impact.
[a part of me will forever make up a part of you]

When you leave, hide my taste in your smile.