- you stain my organs like the blackest of tea poured over and out into bone-white china cups. i feel the weight of your aftertaste in every moment of solitude scraped from breaks made into restless messes by your memory.
you haunt me like a mad man's symphony, like a eulogy pre-written and dedicated to the residue of us.
porcelain dolls with faces as pallid as your affection and as alabaster as your skeleton watch us fall apart. our saccharine sub-terrains implode, chipping the edges of our finest china with their crystalline shards; we bleed out as quickly as torn tea-bags doused in scalding water.
you are the tiresome teardrops that fall from my eyes whenever i get the chance to catch sunsets embracing lonesome fingers, palms and arms all wrapped up in the subtle undertones of ceylon.
if only we could keep pretending to be the finest, royal darjeeling, my darling, but the truth is that you were made to bloom with bergamot hope and i am but a melancholy, mint-infused reverie, whose source has always sprung from you.
chained together by rust-tinged fetters, you leave me to feed from your slop; a child who has dunked a biscuit one too many times into a forbidden cup.