It still smells of you when you leave, 

spicy jasmine coupled in with shots of honey. 

It’s always made me haywire,  

blood pulsing, turpentine lodged in my 

throat every time I inhale. 

Picturing hands splayed, hair a black mass of 

matter consuming my bed.  


I feel like sand upon the beach,  

being swallowed up by waves, sun rays  

laughing at my drowning. There’s an art to it,  

one only she can see.  

And I am a sculpture. 

Pure white essence mixed with cardinal sin, and  

falling before her as if in service.  


A mortal worshiping the deities,  

the muse devoted to the artist, 

piety in her touch.  

How will you express your praise? 







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