in 10 years
your body will be
covered in ink
and i will look back
on the days i used to
make the most intimate
c o n t a c t
with the flawless
ivory silk you called
skin, a version of you
that was young and
pure

i used to write about being sad -
the things i know:
how my fingers constantly grasped for
metacarpals the never really
fit with in mine
and how only the fire
that i poured down my throat
made me utter the words,
"i love you".
now i struggle upon embracing
how the drowsy-eyed glances
turned into sacharine stares,
the whispers of "you could love me",
places on top of mountains,
and freckles that i can count;
every single one of them.
if they say,
"write about what you know",
then where do i even start
about all of the things i don't?

when i die
bury me with butterflies,
cut my veins open
and fill them with your sedated sighs.
when i die
play bloodbuzz ohio,
and twirl and laugh.
kiss me on the cold cheek,
tell me how much you'll miss me
and my drowsy eyes
my cautious conscience
my satirical stares,
and long nights that didn't seem so long
when i die,
bury me with butterflies,
2 weeks of life is all they need;
and so do i.

I think i believe in god now. Not as an overbearing presence or a silver-bearded man sat upon clouds dictating my every move but i think i have found meaning the idea of a greater power.

I don't know how we end up drenched in cold september rain every time we go out but i think its a sign. Of what i'm not yet sure but i know the way your eyes lit up the last time i saw you was the work of an angel.

I swear i reached heaven when my heart jumped out of my chest and into your hands, metaphorically of course since your hands explored my skin, i was beside you and i think i lost track of where blanket met boy because your warmth replaced mine and my god did it feel good.

I'm not juliet and you're no romeo but maybe our lips can do as hands do one day, and maybe i can reach enlightenment or like hold your hand or something.

I think about why people pray as i lie in bed synthesizing you out of blankets and no amount of ******* pillows can make every hair stand on end like you. My thighs miss your hands and their melodic movements and trails of fire and i miss the sound of your heart and how fast it was beating and i wonder if you could hear mine too from across the room.

I hope heaven looks a lot like that room, as this one is hell and someone turned up the heat.