beethebear

I cut candles straight down their waxy center just by looking into the flame. Slick peels of honeycomb melt into my palm and blister skin. Then the world ricochets forward. I plummet back into my body and there's a thick distortion in audio. A constant pulse at the back of my eyes, tuned to the rhythm of your heartbeat. I look for traces of you, but, God, you're lost. Leaves fall as paper lanterns from wooden fingers. Spiraling upwards on the breath of cosmos, back to Heaven, lit like the sun on a marvelous azure backdrop. I needed your wisdom, but all is gone. Christ, you're dead. Atheists are not meant to love. Realists

I cut candles straight down their waxy center just by looking into the flame. Slick peels of honeycomb melt into my palm and blister skin. Then the world ricochets forward. I plummet back into my body and there's a thick distortion in audio. A constant pulse at the back of my eyes, tuned to the rhythm of your heartbeat. I look for traces of you, but, God, you're lost. Leaves fall as paper lanterns from wooden fingers. Spiraling upwards on the breath of cosmos, back to Heaven, lit like the sun on a marvelous azure backdrop. I needed your wisdom, but all is gone. Christ, you're dead. Atheists are not meant to love. Realists