Kiss the calamity on my lips and leave your imprint of atrophy like a stain on my skin. What is really a love poem but bits of broken words you said in your sleep?
I hear music in the distance that sounds like things I cannot romanticize with justice. There's deterioration in the melody, and with every beat your heart skips I get a closer look at the fragments of you that fell apart. Somethings are just too personal, like what I daydream about 24/7, or that fire dancing behind your closed lids that warms your dreams when another can't fuel them physically.
The biggest thing about ourselves we could hope to have is our complex. And even that is pretty small. The ground can't handle the weight of our hearts and we're just begging to slip into the cracks of the pavements to our proverbial futures. You always did connect more to torn and ripped remains of poems than fresh handwritten ones, with evidence of my glistening fingerprints all over.
We don't die like stars, you say. We die like heartache. Real, tangible, and then just gone.
wrote this in pieces, first sleepily over strong coffee at 5am, then in a brainstorming session at night. had it on a shelf for the past few days because i couldn't think of a title and because i felt it was too unconnected.
enough rambling. thank you for reading, i really really appreciate it. -ivy