![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
metaphorliteralThe taste between my lips is tartly sweet--
pomegranate staining them a deep and bloody red--
but my favorite fruit is little more than ashes
in my mouth. You've come-- gone-- left
me here alone, my thoughts my only company,
you with green glass curled in your elegant fingers.
I can't help but try to catch you with curled fingers
as you walk away from me; it's bittersweet
to realize there's no time I don't want your company;
while here, I am surrounded by books unread,
berated on all sides by duties undone, writing left
for another day. My notebooks turn to ashes.
Still, there's a phoenix risen from these ashes
where my inspiration died, reaching with fingers
turned into claws. They sank into me, and left
one venomous talon. Delirium drags sweet
and simple words from me, written in red,
pleading: I beg for anyone's company.
I'm bound to die unloved, longing for your company;
one kiss before my body is consigned to ashes.
Better to be remembered truthful, blushing red,
than shy and lying perpetually behind my fingers.
Just kiss me tart and pomegranate-sweet
(which is to say not sweet at all) before you're left
alone here with my pyre. Flame will be all that's left--
no need for excusing away the company
never offered. The thought is sweet--
but there is work yet to do, and I am not yet ashes.
There's my story, there's my pen in shaky fingers,
my words still to be written, to be read.
My fingertips are stained with sticky red--
once juice is licked away, blood will be what's left.
There's nothing more to write with bleeding fingers,
no further pleas tonight for your unwilling company.
Here I burn the rinds of fruit into a pile of ashes,
leaving on my tongue only a faint memory of sweet.
The frantic hyperbole pushing my fingers burns out to ashes.
Left after the exaggeration is something almost sweet:
My request for your company in a note yet to be read.
pomegranate staining them a deep and bloody red--
but my favorite fruit is little more than ashes
in my mouth. You've come-- gone-- left
me here alone, my thoughts my only company,
you with green glass curled in your elegant fingers.
I can't help but try to catch you with curled fingers
as you walk away from me; it's bittersweet
to realize there's no time I don't want your company;
while here, I am surrounded by books unread,
berated on all sides by duties undone, writing left
for another day. My notebooks turn to ashes.
Still, there's a phoenix risen from these ashes
where my inspiration died, reaching with fingers
turned into claws. They sank into me, and left
one venomous talon. Delirium drags sweet
and simple words from me, written in red,
pleading: I beg for anyone's company.
I'm bound to die unloved, longing for your company;
one kiss before my body is consigned to ashes.
Better to be remembered truthful, blushing red,
than shy and lying perpetually behind my fingers.
Just kiss me tart and pomegranate-sweet
(which is to say not sweet at all) before you're left
alone here with my pyre. Flame will be all that's left--
no need for excusing away the company
never offered. The thought is sweet--
but there is work yet to do, and I am not yet ashes.
There's my story, there's my pen in shaky fingers,
my words still to be written, to be read.
My fingertips are stained with sticky red--
once juice is licked away, blood will be what's left.
There's nothing more to write with bleeding fingers,
no further pleas tonight for your unwilling company.
Here I burn the rinds of fruit into a pile of ashes,
leaving on my tongue only a faint memory of sweet.
The frantic hyperbole pushing my fingers burns out to ashes.
Left after the exaggeration is something almost sweet:
My request for your company in a note yet to be read.
