Icelandish Poem by Cerulean Celyn

He is quiet
His words lay wasted in the air,
And I have something on my chest
I cannot say.
My blood flows parallel to his,
But with no density;
So it pools around our lifelessness
And we are altered;
We are not what we've once been.
I lay sullen
Until my dark hair streaks with red,
And his eyes widen as my bloody burded
Meets his lips.
My thoughts flow parallel to his,
But with no clarity;
So they settle around our consciousness
And we are altered;
We are not what we've once been.

*this explains the pointlessness of couple suicide