Good Mourning

I want to be the hidden plot of an assassination
And when I die my blood will be the soil you waltz on
Blood will be the ammunition for tulips that shall bloom every year.
And that coppery flavor on the edge of your lips, that's me.
And that static that erects the hair on your thighs, that's me.
Let me be the one to bring you home.
Let me sing you a holocaust.
I stuck my jigsaw in you and embroidered your heart
You called me Gepetto but Lord knows resuscitation is a foreign skill
I left slivers just above your navel that reeked of vinegar.
I read the splinters of your body like blind man reiterates Braille.
And that message that was bathing in loathe, was for me
And that reverberation that seeped out from your lips, was for me
Let me lead you into the night.
Let me be the morning that crawls up your kilt.
We shall follow the sad plight of an exiled horse in Scotland
I want to wash your hair with the spit from the Alps
And ride you like a zipline protruding through Costa Rica
And we will wake up separate
But alone and remember this was just a dream.
The world we knew was just the infinite space that we call thought.

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