Her dreams aren’t coins—
they’re teeth,
and the night chews them to dust.
His poems aren’t art—
they’re tombstones,
each verse a fake name.
When they fuck, it’s not love—
it’s two prisons
comparing keys.
At dawn, he leaves
with her voice sewn into his pockets.
She lets him.
The street doesn’t miss him.
The street doesn’t care.
But she waits—
not for the poet,
but for the rot
to finally taste interesting.
\"Why?\" I ask.
She smiles:
\"Nothing hurts better
than a wound
you can’t stop touching.\"
Now she carves his name
into the wall.
Not to remember.
To prove
the knife was real.