Guilty

I'm sorry I have nothing grandiose to say, 
Starry-eyed rhetoric for the rosy lenses of your heavy lidded eyes. 
But, 
I am, contrary to what you believe. Listening. 
Tracing the luscious O's and A's bleeding hearts from your pink lips as you gush my name. 
Head on my chest, your brain has become my heartbeat 
Using strings of neurons to keep me strapped to this bed. 
You are painting in sepia tones with your tongue, making our hands feet and lips one. 
Whiskey tells broke tales of couch hopping and your nicotine stained tongue, 
But we are rich. 
Rich in those sepias you've masterfully plucked from the eggshell world we've crafted. 
The rouge in my cheeks, the cradle in your breast swirl into a cornocupia of deep beiges and caramels. 

You are still begging me for large salty waves, seventy-percents of my world in pretentious plans for our future. 
I want to steam your air, breathe your breath and become the best parts of you. 
You are the best part. 

So, it's raining and the sepias are seeping into gutters and the heart that you've given me has laid on the shelf. 

Despite this we are intertwined in the ghost of my lies, 
The study of your chest, 
The twist in my hips - 
You're begging me for more, stripping walls with liquor and daring me to look you in the eyes. 

I can't. 
So, it's raining and I stare at your heart on the shelf, and we are still a fraudulent pile of limbs curled in the warmth of  white lies under the guise  cotton bed sheets. 

You allow me to roll in those eyes of sap in streams of sunlight, 
Roam my hands on that endless chest and fly in the plains of flowers hidden in the folds of your brain.  
I am guilty of plucking your daises and stabbing them into your heart pinned to the wall. 

So it's raining and I beg to enjoy today, blind of hearts unfolding, blind of my selfishness in love. We are at the beach and my oceans remain churning in my stomach. And we remain matching heart pendants 
Dysfunctional and unable to clasp. But they remain on our necks.