the things we do, when the night feels blind.

Fallen Alone

you are a rain storm resting on my lashes like a moth- drunk on depression.

i can almost taste the death on your lips, as if you’d just spent the last few months kissing every grave where a sense of longing lingers for the longest of seconds, before writing an eulogy on my chin and tying them up in my hair like a spider web of delayed farewells.

you’re gone-

like a comet desperately lost behind the eyelids- between a blink and a sigh. maybe you were just never here. or maybe, your grief was far too dense to remain anything but a black hole stealing my eyesight.

this night is blind- i could fall on my knees and ask her to marry me, but the sound of you plucking out each seed off a decayed dandelion still makes her bury her face in your chest.

she’d never hear me.

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