Here is my mouth and here is every nook and cranny lost in translation straining to make sense.
Here are my hands grasping for the sunset and drawing words in the air when my voice isn't working.
Here are my arteries and here are my veins, unleash me.
Here I stand and here I lay.
On my back,
behind the church,
soiling my dress,
with you.
Scowling at the sky just in case God happened to be glancing down in disapproval.
But, grief is a freight train with no warning signs.
And while I was adopting the feel of the cement you were burying my heart in the cracks of your hands.
Tell me; if it didn't make your heart stop and your memories rage in a split second loop,
was it even a kiss at all?
How I wish to be well acquainted with the river that runs by your grave every time it rains.
Visiting for tea and a glimpse of what used to be when it feels like could never be the same.
It doesn't help that I'm still trying to guess how long the water will take until it's too hot to handle and pushing the limit even then.
Take me back to our little loverance. I'm feeling one shade too tired to be a fighter.
Make me question wearing this color to your funeral and emptying my playlist before you came.
Weird is the new black so best believe I'm feeling downright strange.
Love me anyway.
I've been trying to teach the sun to forgive and the moon to forget.
But, I guess I was mistaken, God only cares on Sundays.
Bring me the easel and grab the pastels.
We're on our own.