i have been passive smoking your grief for what seems like years now- what could have easily been months or weeks or mere days, but time walks slowly when you’re mourning the death of someone who was never awake, enough to know the effort it took to raise your lungs against gravity.
we’re falling down- wingless, and without care of how much it might hurt when the earth fucks redemption into our bones. we’re falling down like static electrons- restless and unwanted- experimental, in ways that churn the guts of men hungover half a shot of misery with a few drops of tequila.
love has always churned my gut, but longing- longing rips the skin off my muscles, and sews them into the tiny shards of bones skewered through my heart, making a facade of a spiderweb that has always spelled your name.
something beats inside my chest today, something…
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