Can we still be friends?

Five words.
Five syllables.

It’s funny how we are more creative when we're dying of pain
Like the pain can turn to liquid
Race through our purple veins,
Drip through our fingertips
To hit keys,
To grip a pencil like a throat
To create masterpieces that will only ever be appreciated by those
Who grieved.

We will carry our art on our backs
Tripping over pebbles
We are dehydrated from love
We crave and have a hunger for beauty
We look at freckles and we see stars
I will never, see freckles the way that they were placed on your pale face
Your eyes tell too many stories that you'll never explain
You forced me to drown in a desire for you I did not have
I did not love you,
I never did.
My love will turn to liquid and feed another whose thirst craves the same.