I wish that I could carve my apologies onto the backs of your hands, so that you may never forget the way my voice echoed between the sheets.
You've burrowed a space between my ribs, leaving a crater for your voice to whistle through when you're gone.
It is the song that plays as my breath rasps in and out of tired lungs like crumpled old origami.
The lines are no longer sharp. A haze, nondescript and uninterested. I breath out years of dust and dandelion corpses.
The floor is littered with their forgotten wishes.
I am just like so many of them, a single pasted flower in a house full of torn wallpaper.
We were thrown into the formaldehyde of the universe without an instruction manual, left alone with our confounded parts.
I am one of the puzzle pieces mixed up and misplaced, addicted to the feeling of bleeding.
I tear and tear, hoping to find answers spreading across my skin.
But you hold my hands tightly and bandage my wounds.
You quiet those impulses, numb those itches.
Medicated kisses across my elbows and eyelids.
You fill the space between my ribs.
There are words on your lips, and they say that we are going home.