I didn't even write about you,
and yet,
you managed to
slip
from
my
fingertips.

So, I'm writing now.
Whispering to the universe
how I long to kiss
the stardust
from your lips.

Tides ebb away from the shore,
Withering trees,
falling leaves,
lands crack open for you.

I trace my hand across
the expanse of my skin;
trying to feel any
remnants of you.

My fingers automatically
expand,
retract,
intertwine,
on its own accord
to the ghosts of you.

Can you feel me?

I ache.
I beg.
I bargain.
I persist.
I breathe.

I hope, still.

For all the times
we’ve spent on yearning
each other’s bodies;
tracing lifelines on each other’s skin —
to kissing all the specks of stars on our tongues.
I would’ve waited an eternity
for a far-flung reality
than end the flickers of wonder that is you.
Taking you all in.
The beauty.
The absurdity.
The other side of fear.
Oftentimes disheartening.
And knowing that nothing is ever promised.
Waging wars on myself
To let go of the hope burning inside me.
Running towards trepidation.
Gasping for air,
of time running out.