let me tend to the butterflies in my stomach
so when you step into my world
you'll see a garden full of colour.

it's the ache in my chest
and the tingle in my palms
the ***** of tears at the corner of my eyes
that makes me think
makes me wonder
what it is to truly feel
what love is like
as young as i am
and as innocent as i seem
amidst the world
desensitised
and numb
i don't understand
and maybe that's okay for now
because from my own experience
from what my own fingertips feel
from what my eyes have touched
and from what my ears have solemnly listened
it is a kind of pain
we often yearn for.

i find it funny
how often i speak of love
when i myself
don't quite know what it is
and don't quite know what the difference is
between romance
and romanticised.

it's the whisper of a weary goodbye
caught in a sea of hellos
the faintest touch against your lip
from a manicured hand
or one so callused
it's fingertips rough as they glide on your skin
it's that feeling of familiarity
in a place so foreign
where no one knows your name but you
or who you are
and when you wander around at night
to stumble into your kitchen
making the pots and pans rattle against each other
it's the burning in your chest that goes down your throat
and into your stomach
birthing butterflies that flutter around
it's the cold splashes of water on heated skin
the tear stained pillowcases, the tear stained sweaters
the near-bleeding red scratches of the night before
and the deep blues and purples of a bruise
and when you've had enough
it's the mind-numbing ringing in your ears
and the sudden wash of everything at once
when you take those rose-tinted glasses off
maybe it's love.

In the lull
Of our constricted voice

In the hushing
Of our sullen realm

In the finite
Of our broken hinterlands

A watermark
No, rather

A barrow
A grave

Without inscription
Only handprints

In memoriam
Of the receding surf

Never heard
Never reached