I remember when you said..
God doesn't listen to the prayers
of fallen angels.

That sewn lips should never speak.
So you sing to me free style,
and beg me to call you...
but only when you're too high
to notice the desperation in my voice.

Numb to my touch,
oblivious to my emotions.
I caress the phone instead,
hoping you can orgasm through the wires.

A subtle moaning sigh,
trying to get your attention.
While you pass blunts around the room.

You're crying now,
too much THC always breaks you down.
You lie and say what we are doing is wrong.
What if he found out...
The question that always haunts our conversations.

I'm writing you in my poetry..
You thrive within these pages,
making you live again.
The only place where you can say "I love you"
and really mean it this time.

We have an expiration date,
and I'm not blind baby.
This isn't making sense,
we never made sense.

Yet, I suppose that was the beauty in it all.