Something about how your name feels like a sack of marbles dropping in my chest. But when I was young I was afraid of touching glass, until I grew up and you grew out and you showed me how to write love notes on fogged up windows.
We rule like kings on top of an ant hill, and we worship buildings filled with locked doors and empty rooms. We think we would be happier inside while we miss the sound of fingernails clawing at wood and prayers for escape from the other side.
It's like the time you told me to wash my hair of blood and I stood in a river for hours but the water never ran clear.
I will admit I did not expect the finish line to lead to the same lake I skipped stones across while you had flashbacks to your brother's death.
Regret is a dish best served cold.
But I would never take back my grip on the steering wheel so tight like I was trying to choke the promises out of it, the same way I did to you the night flower petals fell out of your hair.
I forgot to tell you before I left that fake plants will gather dust if you don't love them, and when I returned I knew you hadn't been home in days; you were lying on the ground at the park but the children thought you were just part of the ambience, and I kissed 142 fabric leaves while I waited for you to knock on my door.
But you see, my body is a dart board, and god has impeccable aim and **** it all if he didn't hit dead center when you choked on blood.

Tried and true formula for unrequited puppy love with the best of intentions:
Flash 'em the biggest, warmest smile you can, look at their eyes like their face is a puzzle and raise your eyebrows like the first thing they say to you is the biggest surprise you've ever run into. Laugh quietly and make a joke that implies you have nowhere better to be. Avert your gaze and politely dismiss a compliment, but don't disagree with it. Out of nowhere, stop smiling, avoid eye contact and ignore them like you've never seen them before. Never smile at them again.

A list of kisses:
We sat on the edge of the water tower and you couldn't stop staring at the ground. You asked in a small voice if I ever thought about what it would be like to jump. You only looked up when I told you I did all the time. You pressed me back onto wet concrete and we didn't say anything else for the rest of the night except for "I'm sorry"
I followed you up creaky stairs to the attic of that stupid abandoned house and we shivered until you huddled close and you made me forget about the god dammed cold with your sinner's lips.
We kissed only through staticky telephone lines.
You pulled over on a back road and we got out of the car. Your jacket was spread on the wet gravel and we watched the stars until we couldn't wait any longer. Then we kissed and I watched you instead; your eyes were closed. We stumbled to the passenger side door and squeezed together onto that tiny seat until your neck was bruised all over.
We were by the lockers on the last day of school. You missed the first time, I missed the second, but it's true when they say the third time's the charm. We didn't speak all summer.
I try not to remember your name or your face, but I remember your searing hands on my back.
We left your friends on the dock and walked along the water front, you were carrying my shoes for me and you dropped them just so you could hold my face and you stared for a long time before you kissed me like I was fragile.

I have a hard time breathing. It's either the asthma or the cigarettes, but maybe it's something to do with the way my chest gets tight when someone says your name, even if they're not talking about you. I can hear the air fighting through my throat on the way in, but even more so on the way out. I get it, because after what I had to go through to get inside of your lungs, I **** well wanted to stay there as long as I could. Every cough and every wheeze reminds me of how close I could be, and how hard you might try to push me out. The way you love me is like breathing; recycled, a struggle, in and out . But everyone ends up in the ground with a silent chest some day, and I am not ready for that funeral yet. The childhood pet meant to teach me to cope with death lived well past his years and still curls up at the end of my bed every night.
When I was a child my mother would read to my brother and I every day, but stop at the cliff hangers. She had to hide the books in the liquor cabinet so we wouldn't read ahead, and that was the first time, but not the last, I found myself sitting on my brother's shoulders, opening those doors in search of escape. Where my lips pressed to the spines of worn paperbacks stolen from the school library, now they wrap around cold bottle rims, or orange filters that promise black air. The way you love me is like coughing up blood. I only imagined it when I woke up shaking in the middle of the night.