xo-EndlessFalling-ox

We spoke too late of making brief and powerful movements. Each one making possible the next. Like everyone else, we thought ourselves special. Grief leaves silently like a ghost. But yours, is the one that haunts me the most.

Sometimes we talk with fist fights in our voices. We pick at the scars and scabs so we can forget but when we wake in the morning the bruises that invert the colour of our skin teach us that love is all muscle memory, that all love breaks and reassembles so it can stand stronger. Between your thoughts and my freckles we are just sloppy muscle and our insides are dumb as bricks. As I swallow the concept I think about how much we need to grow, and so I took the first step. I said sorry like it could change something, like it could cure us, like somehow it could suck us back up into a straw and take us to a time when raindrops splattered on win

Did I hold your hand too tightly? Your mother didn't think so as her and I looked through your baby pictures trying to predict how and where you learned to love. But I suppose that doesn't matter because like all bad things, we came to an end. I cried so hard that night that my eye lashes were swollen for weeks. My eyes encountered drought peeling back like paint trying to look at you, trying to find the moment we lost each other. You wanted space and so I tied my love to your rib-cage because I knew if you got lost you would have something to pull on. I knew you could come back to me but I didn't expect it. My last glimpse of your smile wa

My lips have choreographed a clean whisper over your ears, eyes, nose, and freckles all leaving you suggestions about how to make a bird feel good. That was a long time ago but still there's a piece of your heart that lingers on my tongue, a long and bitter taste that burns my throat when I swallow. It hurts but I know that there's a piece of your face I haven't kissed yet.

When I think of you I hold my breath and close my eyes. I imagine you would bandage me softly like winter. You have a gentle touch, but sometimes I wish I knew someone exactly like me that wasn't so obsessed with how your knuckles poke holes into my wooden body just so I can breathe. You have a hundred secret names and I scream out each of them because you are the feast my mouth cries over. I wish I could hide you under my jacket in a supermarket the way a child guards their first helium balloon from the sky. But I am the world's worst shoplifter and you are the handgun muzzled into my gut. You dress like someone who hasn't had much but you s

I want to kiss constellations onto your skin so the imprints from my past lovers will be filled with the taste of ecstasy that lingers between your sheets when we make love for the first time. I like to feel you breathe warm whispers into my chest cavity because I know there's a chance my shallow heart may be filled with so much stardust that I may never dig myself out. I want to swallow your words so the butterflies in my stomach can remember what gravity feels like because they are exhausted from creating nausea every time they feel the vibration of your voice. And my last wish from you is to show people we are connected. Connected, like th

Let's run quick like the ten year old boy skipping the cracks in the sidewalk on his way to the candy store. The same boy that does tummy stretches in preparation for all the Jelly Beans his tongue can taste and his belly can withhold; the boy with a smile that expands too far and engulfs his heart when the cute girl at the counter filled him with the sweetest, tastiest butterflies. When he met her eyes nausea echoed through his body shaking his hard earned coins out of his pockets, he sure got his money's worth that day. And ever since that sugar rush he has come to realize you can't buy love but he's going to dig through dirty couches, tak

You twirl a pair of dice in between your calloused fingers. You try to avoid gripping them because you're afraid the anxious sweat that has collected into your palms will jinx any chances of success. You glance down and realize only with your hands you can dance because suddenly the pit in your stomach has dropped to your feet. You trace the dice. Every black dip carved in the backs of the cubes remind you of how many of your friends cheated you while you played hangman in grade school. The dots are a tally of your faults just like the body you drew on the paper underneath the phrases you could never figure out. How with each breath you su