His fingertips were dripping with honey and he danced through a pool  of milk on weekends.

Yet on one Saturday afternoon; grey and gloomy, he swooned and drowned in that same pool of milk.

I  could not save him so love letters sat waiting, buried at the bottom of that ivory white tub when drained.

He was waiting on  me.

His fingers bled and left the pages sticky when writing. His fingers bled with honey and my eyes began to fill with tears.

He told me all his biggest fears yet I never listened.

showed me all his darkest secrets and scars but I never looked.

And now those love letters, sappy apology notes from something he never did wrong wrapped it’s fingers around my wrist made scars as deep as his and now it’s too hard to  read them.

You know, cuz it’s covered honey and drenched in milk much like my ivory white tub is now.