The touch is what I missed most,
and the haste with which you crept
into my arms, a vital part
of what I don't have left.
Blue blood wasn't in me,
but you made me royal.
Fucked up, without reason,
but perfectly loyal
and with fire in my lips,
it will make me feel sick
that you'd rather drown a blue death
than be veiled in deep red.
The touch was what I hadn't lost,
but the haste with which I'd left
made my eyelids heavier,
as if I hadn't slept.
Valour wasn't in me,
but I was sure enough to swallow,
pride was what I'd left behind,
guilt is what will follow
and with red marks on my neck
it will make me leave my nest, I
would rather burn what was me
than live with what is dead,
and the beat from my chest
was the loudest thing in the world,
and the absence of your dress
was the hardest thing to ignore,
and into you I crept, just
how I had endured
the months of what was faked death
of my heart, I wasn't sure.
Only breath would give us up,
lonely and together,
in love and somehow silent.