We Left

We let the house all pitch Black, the rooms smelling like fresh sushi and steel

Of our hearts and knives. She had a mane of fiery red hair and marks of past battles all over her face, maps of beauty and oddness that normal people call freckles.

We left by morning, glorious as an autumn apple, by a road unknown to the cold wilderness, as siblings or acolytes of the Mass guided by our hearts, top trees and hazes waving over black glasses and hazel eyes.

She was my cup of coffee, sweetening my lips every cold and bitter morning.

I remember to cook for her, feasts of bread and chocolates, bloody beers and calf tongues, gave her my fingers in papillote and my lips as cherry bonbons. Electronically enlighten  was her skin, pale and marked by the freckles and bite marks, she used to hang her rings on my antlers, this was a long time ago, I remember the sand, thin and crusty, under our bare feet, telling us story of the loves passed over it.

And the buried bodies by murderers and psychopaths.

We let the kitchen with the scent of lemon pepper, she butted me and thrust me with a knife, low and precise, and I felt my blood turning to roses on the woodsy floor, I bit her hard on the hand, spilling after eights over our bodies drenched in bloody rosy color, pallets of life flowing over my antlers and her wings.

We left our bodies under the moon, and our blood looked really black in the moonlight, listened to Love Crime in and endless repeat, two sides of the coin loving and killing each other throughout the times.

Because true love is never sunny, it has to have that drop of grey, burned film and stained lens, grained picture of indie movies and scary paintings.

She let me play her thigh like a harpsichord; I had blown inside her mouth like a bagpipe.

The kiss that emanated from her lips was an art form, deep and dark, like those paintings sick and beautiful by Nicoletta Ceccoli.

We left the November in a train, roaring over iron and wood, through deep and forests, were fairies blessed us, angels of summer we were, made of flesh, blood, music and light.

And every time I watch the moon above, I remember your big and red heart, once know as my abode. 

We left out petty lives when our hearts, once tangled, were separated by time, but I know we’ll meet each other again and again, because I’ll recognize you by the will to drink your blood and play your thighs as harpsichords again. People like us, underwanted wild ones will always scent each other and live the lives we’ve got, because we are flesh and proud of that. 

Together as one, against all others. 

We left for sure, but we’ll come back.