Sunset.
Sometimes I feel like a mortician.
Undoing and redoing stitches from scars made from incisions of my
indecisions.
Holding my breath watching another funeral.
Procession.
Black roses.
Blacker hearts.
Six foot something angel.
I miss you most at midnight.
When shadows and sin can
hide beneath tattooed skin.
Black sheets.
Blackest moon.
Tell me you love me this time, before I have to throw dirt on
another casket.
Sunrise.
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