hotbox our love in the backseat
his grin holding a thin paper strip
with Greek Gods on his sleeve
another future passing by
he only smokes so much to die
I ask him what he believes in
to sin against all odds
he says someone who can save him
and like me, he never believes in God
but I believe in angels – Arch, fallen, guardian
all with halos bright like neon
The sun seems 6 billion miles closer
when it blows lukewarm kisses at my skin
he would leave a third-degree burn on these feathers
if humans' bones were made of flint
our false heaven has burnt to cinder
who's the Saint and who's the sinner
Every boy that I tried to save from a storm
says I'm the one who needs salvation instead
he didn't set himself on fire to keep me warm
I'm just a paper body dancing around my death
homes are never meant to stand beside volcanoes
and this is not a poem about angels
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