In your lips, I found the cosmos.
I found the me that loved herself,
the me that existed outside of
the melancholy songs and messy poetry on restaurant napkins.
I made my paper-home in your ribcage
but I failed to see the lit match balanced
dangerously between your calloused fingertips.

(I miss you like the moon misses the sun.)

You were sickeningly sweet,
and I was desperate to be saved.
You were everything to me.

(I was not brilliant enough.)

I was naïve in my loving.
I never thought that something so pure,
could turn so dark inside my mind.
That's the thing about me,
I pull things apart in my head
until they're mere fragmented versions of what they used to be.
We were no exception.

("I desire the things that destroy me in the end.")

The phone calls got shorter,
my heart cracked a little with each
missed encounter.
I felt myself slipping through the cracks
of your brilliant pavement.

(I am falling apart day by day.)

You didn't know how much it hurt to feel yourself
being forgotten.
You didn't know how it felt to be the television version
of a person with a broken heart.
I didn't know that fading away
felt worse than burning out.

(Will drinking cyanide **** the burning in the pit of my stomach?)

I guess now I see that you can't really save people,
all you can do is love them.