Untasted lips stain me cold blue- blocks and blocks
I ran just to get into your head- brought you flowers.
I locked your door- I kissed you like you actually meant something to me-
Mere object of loneliness.
You poor soul- I really need to fix myself but I love the numbess of my feet after you present your colors to me like you and me could be purple.
You poor sore soul- your lips feel like the need to see age old pictures at three a.m- or like pacing around outside my house hoping he’d come this time-
And your lips don’t feel anything like his lips- it just feels like i’m trying to dig into your bedsheets or dig into your lips hoping force produces love.
Then you’re on the list of broken hues- and untasted lips become old news. I know I use, but there’s nothing else to do with an empty stomach.