I’ve written a few lines with your blood on my ceiling,
There are things I cannot convey, yet I try
Like your fingers clasped on shreds of this old skin
Which us not mine, nor was it me…

I close these perpetual hungry eyes that seek
Perfection or some other sort of perfected pain,
And I try not to think that I inhale you
You’re like water in my mouth and in my lungs

And I shall drown, I shall disappear…
Just like some lines that solitude washed away…