5 year old me
thought it was
sharing things with people
crying with them

12 year old me
thought it was
holding hands
the term "boyfriend"

15 year old me
thought it was
kissing
touching

18 year old me
now understands
love comes in many different forms
sometimes in words
sometimes in expressions
sometimes in staying
and sometimes in leaving.

Slowly, it starts.
Boiling,
Rising,
Seeping through the cracks. With heart
clawing up my throat,
you dance on the tip of my tongue;
your voice 'round mine like flesh on bone.
With your reflection sewn to my feet I cannot escape you.
You are weaved fabric from a familiar land;
a veil that strangles and blinds.
But there will come a time
when I will bite your silver tongue from my mind;
f  l  a  y
             y    o    u    r
                                s      k      i      n
from my bones.
I will be heard
(the ringing in your ear)
"You were never welcome here."

A ghost of what I used to be,
though I'm not quite sure what that was.
She likes the rain because it
reminds her that even something
as beautiful as the sky is allowed to cry, too.
Skeletal hands trace the space where fire meets ice.
She was a freshly bloomed rose,
one look and I was hooked, but
I shed blood every time we touched.
My words ghost right past my lips
and she doesn't know that I like the rain
because it reminds me of her tears on
the day she left me. A little peice of her
in every small and watery drop.

I want to kiss your lips
until my whole mouth burns,
The kind of affection that would leave
me in pain and suffocating for air
as my lips weld shut,
Yet your breath is a small consequence
to pay for the moment with your touch.