barely a day or a year or a timeline where i'd chart how far i'd fallen through, the occasional witty remark. shut, up. the hours don't matter in the face of a current you can't face alone. anyway, you can take my hand.
reliving the poems i’d write with these lips- different from my mistakes or your silk-spun kindness and not a step placed wrong. you told me it was early in the morning but you’d never looked more beautiful. a vignette of something incomplete, a forest catching me out of breath and impossibly in love with you.