Crimson over Navy

I want to tell you this story without having to be in it,

      without having to use the word “aku” as it’ll bleed my throat dry 

      until there's no truths and lies left.

      So there’s a movie that we both like. It’s a burnt orange tinted dream life

         where you’re in it and the main protagonist is a morally gray 17 years old girl.

         There will be less cries in the crook of your gourmand scented neck 

    and more laughter over coffee with a cigarette in your hand instead.

     She gives up smoking 

            and she gives up her dream to kill herself, even though it’s still in the back of her mind, living under the folds of her brain 

     and the walls of her skull.

    

      And it’s the future where holding your hand isn’t an afterthought

      Where she can follow a religion that isn’t made out of the way crescent moon bless your sparkling eyes

        Where tongues intertwined with no guilt left, 

   glazed with syrup of apricot.

     I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything.

    Without having to put 

         a definitive line between careless truth and unsaid wishes.

     The almost sunset gently wrapped you whole, and I said that you could taste the sweetness of your own eyes and get high out of it.

    A drop, 

    then a strike of silence, 

    then the bittersweet aftertaste 

    coating my tongue.

    Then what’s left is the space made out of mutual understanding with nowhere to go, 

    much less to be said.