Only For Those Who Love Books

Let’s not glamorize this. No confetti, no glitter, no stanzas

about how you’ll end up immortal.

They love like anyone else.

With every atom, legs around your waist,

one last fuck against the sink, all shiver & shake,

all singing from windows and tarnished silver.

The difference is they’ll turn your blood into lonely.

Was it sex or just another story for a poem?

Fear like soft shadows, like knowing they see you as the match

instead of the flame. Just kindling for their work.

Standing in the way of their final love, their voracious appetites,

you’ll fall beneath them like a battering ram.

Their last great masterpiece.

And you’ll be left forever wondering whether 

it was the person they fell for 

mockingjay soundtrack: