I can feel my heart beating inside my chest.
I can hear the hollow thumping against my ribcage.
I wonder if your ribcage is as hollow as mine, if you can hear it, too.
The monotonous beat-beat-beating of a death march where your heart is supposed to be beating to the rhythm of your fingertips on my skin,
the incessant drumming of your impatient hands on the tabletop as you wait for dinner to finish cooking.
The pitter-patter of the rain on the window when it pours and you **** me so hard I can't hear the thunder booming over the sound of the headboard hitting the wall, the lightning illuminating you,
making you look like how you do beneath the way-too-flashy strobe lights in crowded clubs.
I wonder if you know this hollow beating where we're supposed to love and I want to rip out my heart and swap it for yours, because maybe then it wouldn't hurt so much.
Then again, maybe it would.