In the bellows of my pores,
The salty water that secretes from my eyes,
Starts to seep in.
Maybe that's why my cheeks are so chubby and my face so round.
Pumped full of lost promises,
Lost apologies,
Lost words.
If only you could just take a look at me,
Of what you had truly lost.
I am a part of you, after all.
But I am just a face,
And you won't call.

Your soul has grown,
But so hasn't mine
Seemingly along the pigmented,
aging forest,
of despair.
You breathe deep,
Just one leaf,
Among the chipping branches,
Of what you thought was your escape.
You grow.

Tell me, my love
What is on that beautiful mind of yours?
I've tried to fix so many but,
you're the only one that doesn't seem to need healing.
Maybe that is the problem,
Ol' love.
I only love things that are broken,
But you,
Are old, love.
And I crave the youth
That your calloused hands allow.

It would make sense for me to tell you how I placed you in a box,
in the corners of my mind,
within solidarity,
in an untouchable reach.
Exasperated breaths of words that push and pull through my lungs,
but yet,
not quite make it.
You always told me that you were the corners,
the air in which I allow.
But I'm stuck here,
in the center of a box,
suffocating.