Her

A poem about a girl I liked

Her black lipstick pressing against my neck, a burning sensation left there.

Her eyes as dark a the night, and all its stars above.

Her bangs brushed so neatly

Her life begins with death and ends with it also.

She is a creature I could never forget, wherever I went.

Her hands woven to become death’s aide, moving bodies to the afterlife.

Yet her hands seem distant, gone and gone, never to be seen again.

She is beautiful like the death of a star, destruction for something new, something greater.

I hope to see her and he hands of death once again, and I bid farewell into the abyss of life and sorrow.

Fin

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