my love

to be consumed by romance to be drowning in proof you'll find my body at the feet of Aphrodite  beaten and bruised by the pursuit of expectation gorging on pomegranates blood red i'll turn into poetry eventually that way you'll remember me as something a little bit more than a woman with a notes app and untreated neurosis  i refuse to die of a broken heart as if a Romantic like Keats  though twenty-five is generous the stars will see more of me yet

wine tinted lips deep burgundy a poor woman’s rouge, she holds my hand hastily cracked knuckles, chapped  we try to read the room, the waitress speaks suddenly a voice dripping with honey she hovers like a bee around a bloom, imposters syndrome one coffee, two stains hair dampened from the rain, small droplets on the floor you would never have thought the world outside was grey tinted windows and glasses kept the reality at bay cold, shrill laughter and evil glances nothing they could say yet the message still received  we were not welcome like the plague entering rome, fresh revolution forming in our bones smudged ink on cheap paper heavier than stone writing of experiences they will never have known they sat, judgement sitting on the end of their nose eyes full of disdain later they shall complain  of how we ruined their afternoon by existing, in the rich man's room because it's ours to exist in too yet when we painted it red they came and painted it blue