I drive down your street and suddenly I remember-
your eyes devouring the pages of a novel,
your fingers tapping a nervous rhythm,
your lips pulled tight in a too-wide grin.

Love isn't real,
but memories are,
and they bring shaking hands here,
honest hearts scribbling hopeful realities.

*"Would you like to fake love with me?"

Words spill like ink from a ***
or blood from a wrist.
And let's be honest...
There isn't a difference anymore.

They scratch their suffering on skin
and scream their love like diagnoses.
Diagnosis, a death sentence,
bated breath because *"I've fallen in love."

I haven't been the same
since that summer I turned Nineteen.
Your tongue replaced Lortabs
and lit my blood like the finest whiskey.

My knuckles ache for your teeth,
not unlike my skin reminiscing
Of pale-skinned hands and nights spent
pretending to watch movies.