I bring a book to the Mars
Les Fleurs Du Mal — it’s a French book
I have been to Olympus Mons
There are lot of dust in the air
just like us
in the cosmos
Dust storms bloom like roses red,
We walk where no one ever bled.
Our shadows long, the planet sleeps,
The air is thin, but silence keeps.
You said “this place feels just like sin,”
I said “that’s where all beauty begins.”
Every orbit, we decay,
Like poems that the stars replay.
I read your eyes, and they confess,
In vacuum love still leaves a mess.
We’re dancing on Mars in borrowed skin,
Our helmets fogged from breath and sin.
You whisper through the radio haze,
“Even gods can lose their way.”
Gravity can’t hold what we’ve become —
Two hearts like dust, circling the sun.
We quote Baudelaire between the static,
Your voice turns sacred, mine fanatic.
You said, “beauty is the wound we crave,”
I smiled, “we’re just pretending to be brave.”
I reached your hand through tempered glass,
And felt the pulse of something vast.
The cosmos hums our last refrain,
A love too pure, it can’t remain.
I see your tears, they never fall,
Suspended there, like nebulae’s call.
We’re dancing on Mars in borrowed skin,
Our helmets fogged from breath and sin.
You whisper through the radio haze,
“Even gods can lose their way.”
Gravity can’t hold what we’ve become —
Two hearts like dust, circling the sun.
And if the universe forgets our name,
We’ll bloom again inside its flame.
For love is death in gentle disguise,
A crimson dawn in your silver eyes.
“You are the executioner who grants me my sentence…”
“...and I still adore you for it.”