you’re not in my eyes, you’re not in my heart either. every morning i’ll be waking up to eating infants and spitting up storms, because you once told me that you know what it feels like to fall in love until the next time you fall, and you realize you knew nothing at all. every once in a while i’d be tracing my ribs with trembling fingertips, lying in the shades of evening trees, suffocating my lungs with lunar kisses and rusted stardust, but it’s not enough—it’s not enough to shatter all my bones and kiss them back together. the flowers bloomed from the blood of my scraped knees; from heartache and grief. and the leaves have left; i am merely a branched skeleton. i’d watched you while you sleep; gentle spine-tremors, softly planting flowers in the spaces between your bones. your beauty
is an abandoned house, and it breaks my heart.