His name was shy of just 3 little letters
Missing
From the ceiling my legs on a bed
Of razors
Through the head on the other side, pop the weasel
Goes the needle
Speakers blow through the cracks
Took a mirror and applied some dust
Breathed in the senses broke out of delight
Eyes through a camera lens flashed
Flickered on my skin
Candle burns a 3rd degree
The way his love would ignite
A vision,
He wasn’t one to sacrifice
So I told myself to tread carefully with love understated
Not required to give back
His hands would almost fissure my body if I
Didn’t hold on tighter
A ghost of past
Slick presents on my holy throne,
Jesus he was laudable
Like no other from a page I’d written with half
Empty ink
Carved precision
Such fulfillment
Anything to get a little piece
Of heaven that is him.
So fine and outlined on my lips his tips
Went searching a map of lines
He was good with his hands
No race against time
His eyes like water
Purified with just one smile
No grammar to correct my mistakes
If I said the wrong thing the alphabet he would erase
Hid himself deep inside my essence
I tried to extricate between
This fabrication
But forgery felt good on my body so I let him
Desecrate and outrage
Provide me with suffrage so I can have
A character worthy of a challenge to dissipate
(I will never get tired of reading this. And as cliche it might be, (everything I do and say and write is) it still holds me. I was 18, and I was wise.)
Missing
From the ceiling my legs on a bed
Of razors
Through the head on the other side, pop the weasel
Goes the needle
Speakers blow through the cracks
Took a mirror and applied some dust
Breathed in the senses broke out of delight
Eyes through a camera lens flashed
Flickered on my skin
Candle burns a 3rd degree
The way his love would ignite
A vision,
He wasn’t one to sacrifice
So I told myself to tread carefully with love understated
Not required to give back
His hands would almost fissure my body if I
Didn’t hold on tighter
A ghost of past
Slick presents on my holy throne,
Jesus he was laudable
Like no other from a page I’d written with half
Empty ink
Carved precision
Such fulfillment
Anything to get a little piece
Of heaven that is him.
So fine and outlined on my lips his tips
Went searching a map of lines
He was good with his hands
No race against time
His eyes like water
Purified with just one smile
No grammar to correct my mistakes
If I said the wrong thing the alphabet he would erase
Hid himself deep inside my essence
I tried to extricate between
This fabrication
But forgery felt good on my body so I let him
Desecrate and outrage
Provide me with suffrage so I can have
A character worthy of a challenge to dissipate
(I will never get tired of reading this. And as cliche it might be, (everything I do and say and write is) it still holds me. I was 18, and I was wise.)