my fingers are ringed with green,
the sea foam tone of the rough ocean on a cloudy day

i miss the sea.
i long for its cool, salty sting

i enjoy it whether blindingly
bright, choruses of laughter and seagull
cries piercing the air, or chilled
and fog-laden, the stubborn water lamenting
its woes against the unforgiving shore

every morning,
everysinglerise of the persistent sun
since the days when your hands clawed at my budding skin
has brought this undeniable chill to my bones

every morning i've awoken
and found my hands disgusted with the way my body moves beneath me

the soft curve of my cheeks towards my neck is revolting
if I press my fingers to the hollows beneath my *******, i feel bones:
soft lavender flowers wrapped around my rib cage and blooming around my heart.

these flowers never bloomed like this, not even under your soft embrace.

with you, i found deep scarlet, choked petals curling
around my windpipe and setting my throat
afire with the passion burning in your eyes

roots a brilliant black weaved their way through my intestines and rooted themselves in the pit of my stomach where my mind but not my body knew that this was a desperate mistake.

let me wrap myself up inside the warm cavern of your body

ease my fingers through the spaces between your ribs and hold your heart in my hands.

i want to take all the cracks in your life and all the ways you ever felt you've been cheated and all the emptiness left by crowded rooms full of people and the stinging words of those who should love you and the dark quiet of your mind
and fill them with love and devotion.

let our potential flow over you and bloom like wildflowers.

these repetitions
the sound of my voice reverberating back
sometimes it feels like I haven’t spoken at all
because the static that kisses my words feels unreal

i crave the way you move as my fingers write novels across your ribs
the quiet hush of skin against skin
whispering
safetysafetysafety
whispering
home

where along the path
did i lose my faith?

what dropped me down from the
white,eternally hopeful
land of romantics?

i'd like to say it was you, but i don't know if you

if you
if the way you held me against you
if the way your eyes followed my form
if you

deserve that much credit.

we tend to romanticize the dead.
i think we do that to our lost loves, too.