Broken Glass

I am still a little mad at you as i lift your head and kiss your lips and they taste of blood and the glass is broken over the floor and shines from some light but it’s dark in here and classical guitars are coming through the window are echoing their passion from years ago but it feels like here those notes and all this glass and all the soft parts of us that need to be gathered up and might as well be collected in the stanzas of some tragically romantic song because at least that wouldn’t make us seem so small left here in our mess smeared with each other unable to clean it up.