Burnt Out Someday in The End

Lamentations flutter on the backs of postcards like butterflies wings as they flew from the coup.

Hard days, daydreams form cracks into the dirty brows on our foreheads.

She was a vision you had to see, in the fleeting moments of granulated skylines painted in the various ways we said goodbye.

Reading poetry to the ceiling, waiting for someone to love me, I'm only another day old, and the piano breathes out futures, and summers nowhere near the graveyards in which we've kept.

Dirty waves of selfish gazes that blink in pixels and mountain dew blood types that coagulate, clot, and stop for moments in which the burial rites familial roles dedicate to us. 

Fresh from the accidents, the memories float into the ether where the horizon folds inward and overlaps.

The words hang out in the dark waiting to be put to bed.

Forever on hold, forever slipping into sweet reconciled auto tunes, on repeat as the paint blends blood blisters in with blush. 

Too much.

Too late.

True love, true fate.