maybe all our wasted days will add up to this:
bruised knuckles
and
swear words
and
"i love you so much it's killing me"

we wanted to build something that would last,
something that would whittle away at time,
even after our bones melt into ashes,
and only a tombstone remembers our names

but darling, we were never destined to be permanent;
we were uprooted by our own volatile mouths
that would spit enough fire
to destroy anything we constructed

so, we created desperation and goodbye letters
written with shaking hands
neither of us would claim as our own

we built cities out of scar tissue and left them to rot