call me when your voice is church bells
and when your smile is the aurora borealis,
when your hands cause craters in my already faltered skin
and when you no longer lie through omission
write me when im no longer distant and im settled in your ever wavering orbit
let me put all your worries in a flask and drink it when my nights are cold
if my thoughts of you were a photo album the pages would slice you with the intention to push down that little bit harder,
but its all just a liqueur sugar dream concocted with decent intentions
write peace on your hands and plant them on the war in my chest
break me so i can refract radiance like the night sky on august 23rd
if my words could heal you, id write until my hands were stumps, like the shrub we planted in your garden of lies until it withered and died
well, maybe im dead, but who really knows

L.P