I drank of your blood
and tasted your rainbows;
the salt-rust colours
of all we have done.

I cradled your storm
and learned how not to run away.
Falling through mirrors,
prisms and reflections,
gasping for air,
not knowing how far to go.

Never wanting to stop.

This burning red on my lips;
make me blind.
The abusive colours beckoning,
beckoning,
reflecting back and shattering.

A bloody mirror kiss;
yours and mine,
sweetly silver
in the slivers of refracting light.
I could drown here forever.
I could die here,
with your touch.

Hold me close,
soft in vibrant colours,
breath of promise
closing my eyes.
I feel your tears,
too warm,
and am overwhelmed by the sense of red.

Orange. Yellow.
Green.
Blue. Indigo.
Violet.

Violent,
in its anguished peace.

In shattered colours,
you are with me.

This was written while listening to The Cure's most ravaged, angsty, decaying album ever. The Top. On vinyl. (Thank you, Mikhail!) Hearing different layers of vocals than the CD ever reveals. Revelling in the torture and joy that can only be something so desperate and broken and violent. I guess it's something to listen to while writin' for Dark, huh?