There's a boy
(isn't there always?)
with eyes so deep
that I couldn't tell you how many galaxies
I've counted when he looks at me.
He tells me about the suicide note in the bottom drawer.
Whispering about not belonging in this world is our ***** talk,
and I kiss his words before they
shatter on the floorboards like
the Sunday I drove too fast around the corner.
I have whiplash from both.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
There's a boy
(isn't there always?)
with eyes so deep
that I couldn't tell you how many galaxies
I've counted when he looks at me.
He tells me about the suicide note in the bottom drawer.
Whispering about not belonging in this world is our ***** talk,
and I kiss his words before they
shatter on the floorboards like
the Sunday I drove too fast around the corner.
I have whiplash from both.
3/365
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