Wednesday, 27 May 2009

• Currently Release the Stars By Rufus Wainwright Hallelujah see related

  Sweet Melancholy

  This overcast isn't on the radar.
  It isn't anywhere but here.
  I find myself fading into a dusky mist,
  addicted to smoke.
  I never had one before,
  (well, I had you)
  but I believe I can feel it tugging at my lungs.
  With the last "hallelujah" the match went out,
  and the tin heart rattled on the wall,
  lungs collapsed instantaneously
  with psychodependency.
  I could burn this house down with the leftover fever.
  You were the vampyre that loathed the blood.
  It was so alright for a while...
  but I hate to break it to you,
  "Magic isn't real."
  That's what you said;
  that's all you wrote;
  you rose through my fingers like that delicious smoke,
  and suddenly it didn't smell incensed anymore.
  It smelled like something was burning,
  on fire,
  and then the radius of the blast engulfed me,
  my addiction,
  and any traces of you.

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