You said forever.
Don't you understand what you've laced into that word? An infinite amount of times you'll laugh so deeply that the room rumbles. A inconceivable amount of times you'll look me in the eyes and say "Your eyes are green today."
You said forever.
Do you even understand how many stars die in the time that "forever" consists of? How many babies will be born with our names? How many of them will find each other and call each other by the color of their eyes that day?
You said forever.
But did you understand that forever means nothing to someone who measures their life in tablespoons of honey, and kisses at parties with strangers with freckles that spell your favorite constellation?
I said forever.
But we both knew my forever meant until the day my eyes stopped turning green.

There's an empty pool across the street, you laid me down and told me to wait till the stars fell so I could drown in your love.
I was so terrified because you were the closest thing to God I was ever going to get, and I was trembling at the thought of telling my mother that God wasn't real, but a boy with Jesus in his eyes whispered things like "I want to break you apart, and throw you to the tides." was.
Maybe she'd see why you were favorite verse of the bible, with the constellations running around your shoulders, and the destruction of churches in your wake.
Maybe then I could tell her you were my favorite religion and the only thing I'd get on my knees for.