Memory is false.
We didn’t used to breathe the same air as everyone else.
I don’t feel the hurt of what I felt
And the rain outside your window was warm
I like the art of your absence
I like feeling torn
And the rain outside your window was warm

Blue skies, that fade to cream, that fade to a navy ache.
The sun and moon are poetry that only I awake -
What solitude.
Back home, I'm bleeding out
like rivulets to the sea
the sun and moon are a verse that only I can read
silent and soft, the touch of god
that bleeds down to the sea.

Everything’s happening again tonight,
and the stars are falling in.
A few years ago, I thought the distinct mix of loneliness and heartbreak was a one-time thing -
little did I know it’s a popular cocktail of life,
sprinkled in like cold gin.
I like the feel of old clothes, old lives
old memories and words feel comfortable on the skin
i am so young
and yet the past is like a warm, rose-tinted sea
and with a summer this hot,
I can't help but desire a swim.

Cut close, to the chaste, and hold fast.
I always have been tired, and I've lost the energy to ask
In roundabout ways if you too feel pain -
You are the ice that all at once numbed my fingers
and made me feel again.
I go to bed to digress.
I've lived, and given, and breathed so deep,
all I can do now is think of you, and sleep.

I'm bleeding through, quite viscerally.
And I'd hate to beg of you a hand to staunch the wound,
but I'll barter with the you I once knew -
to take these bits of me you touched and chewed
and pull the skin right off.
Because although the taste of it is tough
A wound of you is still by you,
and its company will have to do.

still beneath, but rising.
The cooling wind and I swapped faces
but now my friends don't recognise me
and I panic through summer.
I think I prefer to imagine your touch
than to feel the burn and sweat of human skin
and struggle with the ways you've changed.
In my head, you're God.
I've given myself free access to the divine
and now this brain of mine is eaten through like Swiss cheese,
flea-ridden, moth-bitten.
Good thing I know my way around the holes,
rarely do I trip.

Girl, your life shines
but sad poetry (probably) is all you will make.
what thousand or two did you forget?
Don't - get it all in your head.
Swallow that salavous moon ache.
When friends let shots of honey
cut black like hot wax and eat the kids -
Worship yet;
you have cool, bitter unrest
and sturdy shoes to play drunk like death.

Fast, please, and let that heart ache
just for a moment, the sun's in today.
Recall like chocolate that thick blood and all that ugly love.
After all this time, you whisper to me still,
an echo in a chamber filled with words and lines that make me cry.
I won't be bitter -
being bitter merely begs the roses up next spring,
pushing through the lawn, pale with over-watering.
The only difference now -
I have forgotten your smell.
Hard to be in love with a personality you have so clearly discarded,
his love.
perhaps, I will grow old, begging for return.
luckily, as the sun sets I keep him somewhere
between my pulmonary artery and the base of my vagus nerve,
a heartful love urge,
the lake of tears.