Take Me Back To When I Wished On Eyelashes, Full Of Childish Hope, When I Used To Ask For Toys For Christmas.

Feverishly romantic how the dead are depicted by the sudden fall, a thud yet graceful fall of an utterly blue veined hand. The last blink, and the mechanical writer stops, as if a last wave to the living, sleeping on the bed when your longed lover lies on the floor, an earthly blanket over their serene sleep, a hand falls when leaving quite unconsciously towards the beloved. Its as if gravity aids the newly departed to rejoin their dead, the hand now closer to the earthly buried, where their waiting lover lies, crept over with flowery vines like snakes and brown contoured skin. The thud of a hand, dangling from the bed, now so much closer in seconds than they had been in years.

So much spilt blood on these lands, isn’t it hard to believe such sweet scarlet flowers grown on those same places? Every time you weave those ruby-red flowers into my hair, do those lovers who never got such bliss sigh? Separated by time but brought together again when our hands entwine, do you still believe that everything we have isn’t the exact same shade of scarlet?

Flying kisses are like such a cute and soft thing :(

golden threads like spools of glazed time, rippling over skin reflected upon or emboldened in time? slivers of voices trapped in the warm rays touching and painting your hair, wisps of unwound paths waiting to be caught. so many red strings, fluttering like our erratic beating, yet I'm left weaving tapestries from bare scraps of discarded lint. furious stitching, from the timed ripples dying, words of a melody barely coaxed by red and blemished fingers. the same golden threads, now remain unspooled, what a mess, caged like a broken Wallace. soft goodbyes left unsaid, braids woven for ultimate indifference. what knot did we miss for the tapestry to burn and not shine? the yellow so dull like jaundiced eyes but the red so stark like first drawn blood.

And just like infinity, we can't get to the ending, happy or sad. We can't skip to the - how does this end? We've gotta start at the beginning, working our way through everything, walking up to the next room everytime something shifted. And maybe, maybe if we're lucky our love will be eternal. Throughout the parallel universes, throughout our mortal lifetimes. A flip of a coin, fingers brushed together by an accidental paint stroke, a step to the next room.

our conversations keep getting longer and I've never laughed so hard,

am i reading too much into this?

yet you are desperate for love too.

it's been 5 years and I still remember your birthday. I don't think I'll ever forget it to be honest. it's been imprinted in my brain and every year around the start of fall, I think of you. and I know I'll be having the same thoughts in 10 years time and we'll still be miles away.

my mind is like a goddamn river. not serene or calm or peaceful, but every thought rushing by too fast and gone before I can fully understand it. I, myself can barely remain afloat in these deep waters. so do you really want to break down my walls, the dams I've built over the years? will you drown in these rushed waters too? and if you manage to swim, would you bring me to my shores with you?

i bite back a smile when you point out that the eye looks weird. i like your shading you say, but the colors could've been darker. a fish in water for the first time, i breathe in the relief. i'm so sick of it, i wish i could tell you, i'm so sick of the mindless hearts and soulless compliments. you're so brilliants echo and bounce around this shell of a frame that was once gifted. there's nothing left yet the red shiny wrapper's still on. not for you maybe, is it too soon to know? call me out, call me out, tell me when i'm being an asshole and i'd smile harder honestly. you offer a repose to this empty gallery.

you are now now now and its running through your fingers like sand sand sand and you can never stop the flow and it's just electricity between flirting neurons but oh you've never been here before and you never will be here reading this again and its so precious and limiting and infinite and its hard to breathe thinking of how sand slipped and fell and sank just sixty two words ago and in that time it took me to count you've already lived so much, each blink registering the frame of a spark you'll never feel again. it rushes like fire stuck falling. too much to hold not enough to grasp. and the typewriter eternally damns us to the human condition. stops.