Quite

Nothing, 

but your pinkish lips,

our melted souls in the carpet,

and a smoking gun eating your hands.

A red wine glass, 

creepies "why?´s" eyes,

9mm. bullet hurting my wall, 

a third eye looking the sky.

Warped and limping before it, 

love screams refusing the truth,

a two hour travell crossing the Estigia,

but Caronte was the JigSaw of the Crew.

Cold expressions, gangster paranoia,

sad melodies on a twelve-string cytar,

the Poe´s Crow standing up there,

hoping you still have my falling star.

But the counterfeit sweet words, perhaps my dying inside bug,

weep this story to the Gods, while my hearth lies quite on the floor.