Broken,
she tied her veins in knots;
her heart, she tore
until it gasped with every beat;
she lined her corneas
with her fingers; she wrote
until they were too afraid,
too dry,
to leak anymore.
She used her wrists like a diary,
writing away all the pain
—or so she thought—
for her limbs were haunted
by a girl of the past
—a ghost
whom her pupils still cannot separate
the rods and cones
to discern as herself.

There was a distinct fondness
I acquired
when I was surrounded with the old,
the crumpled,
antiqued,
coffee-stained photographs;
the way you smiled
every time I picked up the camera
—each frame telling a tale:
the tale of the curvature of your lips,
the forest in your eyes,
the way they helped you look at me
like you do,
the way your mouth formed syllables of my name,
each letter of those words,
the freckles, like constellations,
I connected
at night
in the chaos of the bed sheets.
Each frame told a tale
—initiated a saga—
told me how fond I had become
of how you created passion in me
every time my finger
activated the shutter.

I built you a home in my heart
like a bird nests in a tree,
you nestled your way in:
nesting, building, capturing.

I built you a home in my heart
like the flowers make waves in meadows,
fighting every element:
growing, blooming, capturing.

I built you a home in my heart
like the stars gather into constellations,
painting galaxies in the darkness:
drafting, mapping, capturing.

I built you a home in my heart,
just like the one you made for me in yours:
warm and inviting;
just like you captured my heart.

For in the cloth held by rivets in his pants,
he held captured luminosity
—because she feared eclipses—
so he could draft constellations
in that darkness.

The hours spent,
the petals picked,
the eggs counted,
the stars mapped—
all this time imagining
—thinking, capturing
the octave of letters,
in attempt to
illuminate this feeling
that no letters
ever can.

The hours spent,
the petals picked,
the eggs counted,
the stars mapped—
all this time imagining
—thinking, capturing
the octave of letters,
in attempt to
illuminate this feeling
that no letters
ever can.

The action will never be habitual
though the words are implanted in my heart
like the prints on a fossil.
They are there to remind you
—remind us—
of the best thing that has happened—
to you,
to me:
it is each other.