when i die, i hope to be a better man

blood is not blood. it's not made of oxygen and cells, it's composition is not what it appears to be. it's made of clover honey, thick and threatening, bringing toxins and love to your extremities, keeping you slow and sluggish but ready for a knockout blow or it's vinegar, thin and sour, keeping you limbs ready to move but slow on endurance and easily blown over. it carries ideas, some foolish some brilliant, into our minds and when our lips caress, it's the metallic honey i taste, and my lips remind you of summers on the coast, picnics with fish brining in special tins your father made for the occasion. he's dead now, and so are we, but, our blood pools around us and tells a story our love never could.