the space
I am longing for the nonexistent space
between our palms,
joined in unholy prayer
while screaming “Oh God”.
Like a blind I could draw the salients
of your tattooed skin,-
I have walked there enough
with all my body,
my whole existence
sticking against yours.
I don’t want to go to Paris with you,
I want to get high,
to get higher,
to get a common shape with your shadow,
cause that means we are in light;
we are delighted
in the sounds of Nine Inch Nails.
You help me to belong to myself
by the space created
when you turn your back.
The space always forms what we have,
not what we have not.
And since the day
when your body started to recite the poetry,
there are missed only the shittiest poems
left to said,
like this one.
mrscyanide 
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