I recall my lover as a winter firefly forgetting its own silhouette, Fed with stories of midsummer ivies and stinging wild thorns, Of wildflowers blooming alongside the rainwashed sidewalks. He carries a strangled ballad underneath his skin, A broken tune drowning in its own grey skies And the more I seek, the further it hides; A piece of heaven tucked beneath the devil's artwork A muse well suited for my quaint poetry. I am often told that my poems seem lonely, for I tend to write about a love beyond my reach for I write about a love who chooses a pretty face over me in a heartbeat. But don't we all fall as slaves in our own set of miseries so in mine, I let art play my saviour. My lover carries my heart in his hands, I let him play with my heartbeat while I watch him skillfully tangle my caffeine stained capillaries with his cold, slender fingers And after as a set of unheared ugly cries and a series of shallow breaths escape my lips- I hear him weep with blood spattered hands For he now realises that my words have only wished for a home for his broken ballad everytime he went for a new face over me; For he now knew that poison only tastes like poison until you've swallowed it.