“It hurts to look at your face,” you said.
Is that the most poetically toxic thing you could say?
Because, it’s seeping into me like poison.
I would ruin your life, I think that’s what it means.
Ooh, But I see now, I’m like Pompeii;
that kind of ruin.
In the milliseconds of my lips, you would trip into my ashes and forget about my heat,
letting my lava burn and ooze into your insides.
Maybe it was good you let me go.
I just thought we would let the hot ash mold us into concrete Romans.
It was so beautiful they wrote about it in history books. Don’t you want to be in a book, my dear?
You could sit on someone’s coffee table.
Let them look at your face and wonder about you.
How are you, my dear?