the taste of winter.

"the sky is your favorite colour"
"i know."

we have tongues like cinnamon, and
i tell you that i dont believe you anymore
because your eyes are like noon, and i
hate noon. and i want you to know that
i dont trust you anymore because you
keep me in purgatory when all i need is
clarity, whether it be in heaven or hell.
but our tongues are of cinnamon. and i
need to mourn, but you keep me alive,
alive like fresh coffee and cold air, but all
i want is sleep. and i need to tell you that
i cant breathe anymore, because my skin
is like sand, and i hate the touch of sand.
but our tongues are of cinnamon, and i
tell you the sky is my favorite colour, and
you hiss to me;
"i know."