The words rot under your tongue, where you left them; you pretend you meant to, savour, a compost for more — but it only ever makes it hard to speak.
Logos is the thing you might be able to put a finger on, but if you leave it for too long it will burn through. It’s brittle and brutal in ways you can’t imagine. Reasons have bloomed for two years like a headache, swelling water, like an argument that only leads one way.
Write it out, don’t try to fit it or fight it. The more perfect state of us would be what exactly?
I’ve developed a bad habit of leaning towards you and sometimes I think you encourage it.
**** me up, why don’t you. You’ve seen it happen the opposite way around. Every time you hold onto my wrists I feel the cracks built into my bones, the things I haven’t explained to you
in so many words. It takes a while to take but once it does