Your Beard Smells of Old Smoke

"Your beard smells of old smoke", you'd once said.


I wish I could have told you of all the times, every time I rewound the poetry in the skin of a singular sentence
I wish I could have told you, how your hair smells of night jasmine; how a man of orchids had given in to the essence of a night jasmine's flourish
I wish I could have told you of the monochrome desires bleeding in the heart of the neon citylights and pastel lives; pastels have always been exaggerated, monochromes misunderstood


Beyond glass existences and pretended conversations, lies an entirety of restless unsettling essays; unpenned scribbles that made nightmares look lullabies
Beyond plastic flesh and ceramic bones, lies the whole of faceless demons and nameless fears; skeletons lurk in dark, blank spaces


In a war of similars and congruents, differences drew first blood
Between candids and corpses, second chances hung from semicolons


I could have resurrected and called it Renaissance
I could have scripted good mornings in goodnight kisses



But, this time, I'll let it all out, at a full stop

I am tired of beginnings that end