Something about how your name feels like a sack of marbles dropping in my chest. But when I was young I was afraid of touching glass, until I grew up and you grew out and you showed me how to write love notes on fogged up windows.
We rule like kings on top of an ant hill, and we worship buildings filled with locked doors and empty rooms. We think we would be happier inside while we miss the sound of fingernails clawing at wood and prayers for escape from the other side.
It's like the time you told me to wash my hair of blood and I stood in a river for hours but the water never ran clear.
I will admit I did not expect the finish line to lead to the same lake I skipped stones across while you had flashbacks to your brother's death.
Regret is a dish best served cold.
But I would never take back my grip on the steering wheel so tight like I was trying to choke the promises out of it, the same way I did to you the night flower petals fell out of your hair.
I forgot to tell you before I left that fake plants will gather dust if you don't love them, and when I returned I knew you hadn't been home in days; you were lying on the ground at the park but the children thought you were just part of the ambience, and I kissed 142 fabric leaves while I waited for you to knock on my door.
But you see, my body is a dart board, and god has impeccable aim and **** it all if he didn't hit dead center when you choked on blood.