Me, always used to let you backhand this across
the face because crying turned you into light

your palm stung and burned my senses
bright red, but it was strangely peacefull
you called me your red dahlia, your sweetest nightmare
candleflame, and whispered in my eyes where
your fingers left this marks

you said:
“to live a dream means making sacrifices.”

i said a silent whisper, just wiped away a few
intense pictures and traced this sand
blooming on my my lost land

you used to fall asleep in the wind with
this, and we’d wake up apparetly shocked by the fire
in our eyes and tearing stains on our
senses. our intense eyes tasted like rain.