Christine


let me talk to you about love
not the kind people die for,
but the kind which they cry for its absence
i want to pour out words sweet and warm and terribly fragile
and watch you lick them off of a silver spoon
would you know then?
i want to paint a window over your heart
and open it on bright blue days
so the only things falling in are sunlight and so much laughter
do you know now?
can i teach you to read the colors behind the print?
sure my mouth is shut, but if you peeked beneath my ribs, you'd see
there are lines here, just for you""
golds and mangos and impossibly wide arcs-
the kind that never make it past my sternum, let alone my fingertips
but it's two in the morning, and i want to tell you why it's you
i swallow candles for
to warm myself at night
it's because of you that this isn't the story
where i burn myself inside out
or worse,
open the right box only to find it empty
but it is the story where the right words get lost behind my teeth
and you'll never see the flicker
trust me when i say it's there
maybe someday you'll know

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