This heaven’s not so sumptuous.
This sickly’s not so sweet.
It sticks, too thick inside my throat.
Perfection passes quickly, like the
sunsets that I photograph.
I wait in darkness,
hoping for a fiery sky.
For you I’ll try to forget forever.
For you I’ll stop before I’m full.
For you I’ll quench my thirst with raindrops.
For half is better than a hole.
I’ll swallow eight little letters a day.
They stick, too thick inside my throat.
But there they’ll stay.