When you laid in my bed, you were a landscape painting, and I had filthy hands. When you sat, ******* and upright at my kitchen table, you were a storm and I had nothing solid to hold onto. Everything else in between is a blur, and I am grabbing whatever I can from the Styx swirling around my synapses. In the end I am holding onto what feels like broken glass and I am trying to describe this in a way that will lure you back under my floorboards until you seep through and catch me by surprise like a flash flood. Everything about you stings like saltwater and everything about me bends for you like light and I am so covered in wounds and you are so covered in shadows. When you lay in my bed and sigh like God; when you peel an orange in a way that makes my heart feel all your tearing and pulling, I can stutter for up to six hundred ninety one thousand two hundred seconds. Eight days pass and my lips slowly learn to speak again.