Glass shards melt into solemn sky and I sometimes wonder how the ground feels when it gets stomped on. My head is mostly just heavy from all the pondering, but even I feel exhausted at times, since the knuckles I've bruised so many times their color's lingered don't fit with my already cracked joints and ribs too weak to carry me.
I feel pained but nothing actually hurts, it's like a conspiracy against the comfort I'm supposed to feel.
His wrists have words on them and I'm lost when their skin brushes my own. He's like a work of art completely painted out of shredded curtains and anxiety pills mixed with stardust, his eyes feel like vanilla even though they're only copper and cinnamon on damp capillary.
And I like it that way, even though it's metal it doesn't burn the way it should although I'm still afraid of the scars sometimes. Maybe I'm just too acidic, I don't know, but maybe he's liquid alkaline so we balance each other out by folding our scrapes and wounds together.
The fluidity of it all sends me flying backwards, but only metaphorically because when he's there he never lets me fall. It makes me bite my lip and allow it to bleed because the only time he let me was when I fell for him and he didn't look remorseful even when I started crying in agony.
And I still don't know if it's theatral tragedy but it feels that way since the tears my eyelashes caught when I was thinking about him rested on his lips whenever I pathetically needed them to.
And even though I've never meant to buy it, not even the smell of stale cigarettes and sugary, inked skin against my fingertips- but the pattern of his breathing etched a mark inside my conscience. I'm not even sure it hurts but it itched when he was drawing it, like late dawns over my tired eyelids and the calloused fingers caressing my spine after a sleepless night.
Because I've never meant to let the world stop revolving around the sun and focus on him; and it would be great if it kept moving but no, it just stands in place as frozen as my collarbones sometimes feel when he's not around, and makes me stare at him wordlessly.
And I've never been wordless even though I've been worldless and always searching for a pair of lips that could change that. And he didn't just change it, he made it vanish as everyone and everything else seemed to have when he let me touch his neck and breathe against his jawline for the first time.
And it makes me want to strangle myself when I realize that I don't drink anymore because I'd rather taste him than the liquor; but I smoke twice as much just to make my head spin from something that's not the way his hands feel against my body. And the paint fumes I inhale don't do any good for me as they used to because all I can smell is the power charge he's left on my skin.
And I really think I've gone crazy, but insanity is just a storm without its lightning- and the electricity he leaves burning all over my flesh isn't static. It hurts because the painkillers I take don't drive out the sleep-deprivation, only accentuate the numbness in my lower gut.
I say I need the insomnia for my art but he says I'm full of shit and that I should come back to bed, that the magic my fingers hold won't go away even if he kisses them goodnight. And when he does, I want to paint even more but then he crushes me against his chest and tells me to rest.
"You have tomorrow, baby, and the rest of eternity."