the bruise of the night hangs under us
anxiously; a brilliantly crisp, sharp curve
of dark onto pale that breaks my line of
vision momentarily, because this was
never what i wanted for us.


"i wanted..." an honest wish, spilling
into the air with such fear and regret that
my lungs swelled at the idea of it because
i still hope that maybe i could be
something like that, for you.


you talk like you're trapped inside of a dark
cloud, threatening to pour out thunderstorms
of secrets and insecurities to nearly anyone
who asks, and i know i never told you,
but i know exactly how that is.


in the walls of your home i often feel like i
might melt into the long-dried paint, maybe cave in
awkwardly and suddenly and then you'll just stare,
close-****** and wondering when i became
such an utter mess of a person.


maybe you could fit into my walls, just right;
i could maybe fold down some of your corners
just the right way and - there - you'd snap
right into place, just like all
the others never could.


i'd like it if somehow thoughts like these could
swallow us up entirely, and yesterdays would
only be a shiver of a memory to us any longer,
like maybe this could feel a little
bit like holding oxygen.


i am slipping so slowly this time, it's
different than ever before, and that's perhaps
the most frightening part of it all: my fingers
are slipping from the edge of sanity
with such a slow sureness.


and there you go, ripping into my life at the
seams, bringing in hushed stories like foreign
patterns to hover between my eyes - because
eventually you'll make me lose my mind,
but in the best way.