Your love was nothing but a gossip.
Only if it had a voice, it could have spoken you dollars of allurements and sins. It could have captivated you like a prediction of golden bars and pleasures. It could have tasted like perfumes that could ably rot in throats and tongues. It would grow molds on the lip of your wounds with crumbs as a clumsy crusade. It could have smelled like my name—the name of a wrecked nomad with a forlorn galeryite skin. Just like a rumor announced before the truth stitched in your mouth, it could have spread like unfurled wings presented ahead of the sun, only to get burned by its flames and shadows dressed in gray. The painters could have learned about it earlier and sure enough, they could have colored me blue. The scribblers should have witnessed it in a museum and should have translated your love in words; an abstract made to confuse.
Your love was nothing but a gossip.
An intention to distract,
a message to boast.
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