When death comes knocking at your door, love, hand it the hand written note that says you're here to breathe in a few more ounces of soot before you finally crumble every piece of affection your skin holds. It'll be a sobre dream, love, and it'll be a drunken reality. //full poem in caption// Who doesn't crave for attention? You kiss the seal to the unsigned letter, still unopened by your fireplace every night, hoping tomorrow will bring you a few more of those to add to your petty collection. You pluck the wildflower, you never cared to find the name of, and tuck it tight inside your finger grasp, hoping it turns to sand and slips away through a black hole into the time your anxious self wasn't used to its fragrance. When death comes knocking at your door, love, hand it the hand written note that says you're here to breathe in a few more ounces of soot before you finally crumble every piece of affection your skin holds. It'll be a sobre dream, love, and it'll be a drunken reality. Who doesn't crave for attention, love? If you say, you don't, you're probably lying to yourself more than to anyone else.
