i wrote you a note
in the margins of a piece of loose leaf paper
crumpled from indecisiveness
nervous hands unfolding, folding
scribbled static and meaningless metaphors.
i wrote until the taste of your name left my mouth
and i bled you out into every letter that i traced.
now you are more than tired eyes
and bruised knees.
you are more than scattered pieces,
and the stardust we had shooting through our veins
but something more permanent
keeping these naked moments
tucked between my lungs
and behind my eyes
and within words that you will never read.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
i wrote you a note
in the margins of a piece of loose leaf paper
crumpled from indecisiveness
nervous hands unfolding, folding
scribbled static and meaningless metaphors.
i wrote until the taste of your name left my mouth
and i bled you out into every letter that i traced.
now you are more than tired eyes
and bruised knees.
you are more than scattered pieces,
and the stardust we had shooting through our veins
but something more permanent
keeping these naked moments
tucked between my lungs
and behind my eyes
and within words that you will never read.
this is not a love poem
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