I am an archive of lost things;
lost moments
lost people
lost sounds
lost happiness
I cannot explain to you
the tingles following every touch
as you run your hands down my skin
or the wonder as
we stand under a blanket of stars
that night
or that one rare moment of clarity
monday, on a bus ride home,
after an intense fourty seven minutes
of nonstop writing
after days of night where my blood
is polluted with a poisonous hate
for everything
human and breathing
But if, ever,
we get to stand under a blanket of stars
again, I'll tell you
I love you not in a thousand languages
but I'll squeeze your fingers a little tighter
and you will do the same
because the feeling's mutual.
{d.c}