we built a god from bruises and good-byes
nightly, i prayed, not to him, but to you and the thunder in your ribcage that i felt every time you held me
you said it was a side effect of the creaks in my floorboard and the shadows in my arms but honestly
i could always feel the motion there, only it feels dead now
this isn't love; this is me haunting my own body
this is stale music and trembling lips between life and soul
and you whisper,"it's late you should go home. it's late, please go home"
but we both know that this way we will remain