my lungs are made of sunbleached storms and unfinished poems, stalled and trapped in a cycle of kisses under the disco lights and muddled phonograph records; it's been so long since they last sealed my comets shut; its ice, dust, ammonia, sadness, now trying to spill out of my chest every time i sigh a word.
that's what club music is good for; they mask the sound of breaking down; the sound of bodies and meteors falling apart; each noise drowns out my unsent letters, and restroom meltdowns, and my voice, saying your name over and over and over again as i come undone on a stranger's lap. he looked almost just like you — and then he didn't.
and my comets almost all stayed, but they didn't.
and i was almost just alive — and then i wasn't.
honey, the world got us all wrong — brewing *****, noise and ash-brown eyes across the floor — it's happiness until it isn't; in the end, we're still comets melting into solar flares and forlorn figures that never make it home.
the music fades. the glasses fall. it's 8 am, and we still wake up to the suntrails of all the things we'd lost.