the way she hides behind her glass of wine,
that smile as bright as she makes the world seem.
she loves me,
i love her

but i was blinded by her play pretend,
getting lost with me under the sheets,
bumping knees, lips against freckled skin
getting lost in herself as she gets lost in me.
and i can't be the atlas to guide her.
With my own map, I cannot find her

tracing the skin between her knuckles,
the mole on her breast, her legs around me,
knocking over the glass of wine next to her unfinished sketches
I miss the way she made the world feel bigger than it is,
the world she wanted no part of
and like that, she was the ocean and I was the sand
and she drifted towards the moon

leaving on her own journey,
after hiding behind that glass of wine,
tears on her sketchbook,
replacing her sketches onto her veins.
As long as she's feeling nothing.

how great would it feel to feel nothing, too.