You put on your clothes and kiss me soft,
like we’ve done this a thousand times before—
a little whiskey on your breath,
a little death in your eyes.
You stare through the glass at the city,
and when the lights flicker on,
it looks almost holy.
We fell in love too fast,
like cars on wet asphalt.
Something about us just clicked—
like a gun before it fires.
Maybe we’re sick,
sick in the heart,
but it’s the kind of sick that makes
every bruise look like art.
You read me that poem you wrote—
voice shaking, cigarette smoke
curling between every word.
It gave me hope,
it made me choke,
like love trying to breathe underwater.
Your hands cradle my face,
and I trace the scars on your arms
like I’m reading a map
to the parts of you I’ll never reach.
Don’t let me go,
I whisper.
I won’t let you go,
you lie.
Later, you’re lying on the bed,
filming yourself crying,
and I swear the world slows down—
like the camera can feel your heart breaking.
You ask if I ever dream of flying,
like the wind and the dying leaves—
and baby, I do.
I dream of anything that isn’t this.
We grew up too quick,
destroying the world with a click,
killing innocence through the screen light.
You smile down at your phone
like it’s the only thing that ever listened.
Outside, the city fills with smoke.
You joke—
“If I jumped, do you think I’d float?”
And I laugh,
because if I cry, I’ll drown.
Now the forest is burning,
the sky’s too red to mean morning,
and the TV won’t stop talking.
They’re taking your body away,
and the air smells like the last time
you said my name.
I stand at the window,
nails painted, heart undone,
and whisper to no one—
don’t let me go.
I won’t let you go.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 4:37 PM UTC
You put on your clothes and kiss me soft,
like we’ve done this a thousand times before—
a little whiskey on your breath,
a little death in your eyes.
You stare through the glass at the city,
and when the lights flicker on,
it looks almost holy.
We fell in love too fast,
like cars on wet asphalt.
Something about us just clicked—
like a gun before it fires.
Maybe we’re sick,
sick in the heart,
but it’s the kind of sick that makes
every bruise look like art.
You read me that poem you wrote—
voice shaking, cigarette smoke
curling between every word.
It gave me hope,
it made me choke,
like love trying to breathe underwater.
Your hands cradle my face,
and I trace the scars on your arms
like I’m reading a map
to the parts of you I’ll never reach.
Don’t let me go,
I whisper.
I won’t let you go,
you lie.
Later, you’re lying on the bed,
filming yourself crying,
and I swear the world slows down—
like the camera can feel your heart breaking.
You ask if I ever dream of flying,
like the wind and the dying leaves—
and baby, I do.
I dream of anything that isn’t this.
We grew up too quick,
destroying the world with a click,
killing innocence through the screen light.
You smile down at your phone
like it’s the only thing that ever listened.
Outside, the city fills with smoke.
You joke—
“If I jumped, do you think I’d float?”
And I laugh,
because if I cry, I’ll drown.
Now the forest is burning,
the sky’s too red to mean morning,
and the TV won’t stop talking.
They’re taking your body away,
and the air smells like the last time
you said my name.
I stand at the window,
nails painted, heart undone,
and whisper to no one—
don’t let me go.
I won’t let you go.
I don’t know if yall know the song “don’t let me go” by Tom Odell, but it kinda is inspired by this song. I just listening to the song a few times because I’m going to his concert in a few days and somehow I felt like I wanna rewrite it and make it to a poem, if that makes any sense. It’s really not the best I’ve ever written, but I tried.