shipwrecked

I am not as casual as talking with red wine in an evening gown—I am the conversation you had while walking as dawn slipped from my finger in the street we kissed. It's the blood in the palm of my feet from walking away from your disarray. I kneel before the almighty, saying that no amount of love could clean my name from your tongue, and I swear before the sky that my ghost will bring discomfort into your sleep. I may be done, but I prayed that there would be a missing piece of you that you wouldn't find in any soul that you fathom. And if we had our last affair, you'd be longing for more. No amount of comfort could pull you through like I did. And I'd trade my life if it's a lie, but you exhaust the living soul out of me.