Poetry / Beautiful Things

your face is pretty.
some may call it beautiful.

i destroy beautiful things.
it’s a force of habit.

nature.

calls.

leaves have fallen.
so has orange.

and brown.
but mainly, yellow.

died and fried
the grass sprouts new opportunity.

bleach kills off just the right amount.
but it always left the trail cleaner than we left it.

because i destroy beautiful things.

a little bit of me is everywhere i go.

you get around,
was the last thing i remember hearing
someone say to me.

they were beautiful.

i destroy beautiful things.

my hand cupped the small of your back from
where it was arched towards me.

the wine spilled just enough, on you.
i wouldn’t call it a waste.
i still drank it.

that was beautiful.

and we all know what i do to beautiful things.

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