these lakes hold nothing more than the emptiness of my own two hands;
      than the silent fall of my breath.
because the birds are awake and the sky is still an empty canvas
              that I didn’t finish, that I chose not to because these fingers would not keep still, because they were too focused on tracing you,
    and trying to twine you back together again,

and the sun does not speak to us, not like we speak to it,
    It does not open its sad, dull mouth to try and herd together our aching, empty words,
It does not speak in tune, it does not speak at all.
and the moon does not look at us, not like we look at it,
It does not try to study the placing of our bones, or our wide open arms and how they got that way,
It does not wonder why we sing to it, why we sing to it with our hoarse throats and heavy eyes.

these lakes write in cursive. These lakes write in ripples
from our lips, whistling over them, delicate, trying not to disturb.
these lakes know us. These lakes do not forget -
can’t forget, because we have fixed our naked backs into their stomachs, floating,
trying to write our way into the sonnet,
trying to be a part of something other than our own selves.

But the birds cry from grief, and all the water tries to do, is drown us.

So we both walk home alone, bare feet parading over torn ground, shoes grasped between our bleeding hands.

It’s better off this way.
It’s always been better of this way.