it's not my fault you sound like a Joan Mitchell painting

I don’t know how to tell you this but in the nicest way possible your voice tastes like the end of the world.

It’s the cutoff and the silence and the heartbeats and the timing-

And the everything and the nothing and the in-between

And in all the ways I can’t describe you sound like the flavor of pink,

Of sunset and ochre and opal,

A taste like cerulean and smaragdine

(Shades that sound like the action of running out of time)

How can I tell you that you sound like the end of the world?

And on a vinyl record of everything I say but never mean,

A secret to keep in a violescent abditory

The B-Side:

You are pastel on an oil paint canvas that got hunt in the back of the Louvre and I can’t afford a ticket

How do you expect me to ignore that?

It’s not my fault that you sound like a refracted ombre of sin

It’s not my fault that your words taste like the most beautiful form of self-destruction