Fairytruths...

Bleeding for Breath.
Drug drunken eyes.
Fearful of self-portraits.

We roll on beds like infants. The high ceilings concealing our identity:
Our bones made of snow, not ready to melt.
Our skin of blades of green grass, not ready to tear.
Limbs of remorse.
Home is non-existent.

Procelain Goldfishes Hanging from the Sky, they glower.Towering. Like Gods and Constellations.
These are to replace our shooting stars.
We wish upon each others roast marshmellows, under electric blue flames.

Before we blow it all out.
Hearing the light-weight hissing. It is not from the bon-fire.
Pagan. Witchcraft - almost.
Triviality - Death is seen in every photograph.
Static now, that was then liquidating.
Every particle, every frame, every strand, every smear.
Every untangible smell mixed in the atmospheric palette.
Every gap amidst the threads - the in-between's of the blacks and whites of the compressed glitters in one's now immortal, forever locked eyes.
Let ourselves fall out.

Beneath the stills.
We wish. and wish. and wish.
and dance.

Don't care what you wish for.