Wasted words wet tongue, crash against the inner folds of lips;
the dark crevices succumbing to the twisted sweet taste of neglect and past mistakes
tumbling in my mind like a dancer falling from Heavenly Grace.
Did it hurt on your fall from the sky, asked with a smile.
The tip of a blade scratching into the flesh,
staining, bleeding, black.
Flying fallen into your post bin of rubbish.