maybe love is to watch a thousand winters pass, and still stand by his side because you know he's made of spring

I want to tell you I miss you, but my words are caught in my throat and I'm not obligated to breath for lies that are attached to memories that are now vague to my own sense of comfort.

you insisted every masterpiece has a signature and you carved your name into my skin with blood running down your knuckles

I wish my mind would stop storming with you. the windows are blown in, cracked at every piece and shattered to the floor, glass shards are filling the rugs; the walls creak but never break, the storm is over and the house keys are under the mat, but nobody bothers to come inside anymore.