(This is for eyes as clear as Spring and as cold as Winter)
I have traded my excitement for poetry; for spirit can only wander much until spirit sobers up.
Galaxies away, yet they’re stealing my Sun. There’s something pretty about It rising every hour, but darkness isn’t always sad; only cautious. That’s all.
This is how oblivion works: there’s a storm on the surface of your moon and I can’t hear it. I can’t pull the tide away from the shores of your heart, but I can try and sink the craft, until we sail home, to the clouds. Fly not, for wings melt but sails do not.
The clouds: far away and high.
Dawn is cold and dry.
Still, I have a hope for a midnight sky filled to the brim with stars whose iridescence would fuse fantasies to the lead in your veins.
I think I saw Heaven glistening in your brain. I kept telling myself that the trip to Heaven was worth the fall. Tell me it was worth the fall.
Somedays, it feels like the back of your mind is broken. Like I am going to jump back into nothingness if you don’t mend it with days lost to a future far away from now.
I have swallowed so much pride, it’s making me sick. It makes me sick that I have the courage for you but not for me. That I live for you but not for me.
That it doesn’t seem to make that much of a difference because not two forevers are exactly the same.
