So Twirl Me In The Rain, And We'll Ignore The Words Of Warning The Splattered Raindrops Spell Out On

(hi) (...)

i finished watching our conversation topic from a couple of months ago. the entire time, you were like a spider traipsing along my thoughts, quietly marveling at the silks you laid, carefully tucking in the corners of the bedspread I never learnt to spread. could you tell me once more, that I don't need to be right all the time? I think my compass is way wire, you haven't been singing for quite some time. my wrist still burns from when you dragged me to wonderland, the quickest film drawn out in painful hours only inside my head. We’ve been here before, the tunnel that won't end is yours, can you blame me for being afraid of heights or futures i can't quite graph on my hand? Won’t you let me scribble over your blue hands one last time? I won’t do it in permanent marker I swear, this last time.

I don't annotate much in books, and yet if it was him? I'd underline every letter. the margins would be complete with my handwriting (I hope). I'd highlight all of him, every single page.

I ignored all the signs under the surface, refused to accept the truth behind the curtains, drunk on our love as how dictators drown in their power, and I faced the consequences while you grinned from the crowds. your love was the looming guillotine hanging above my head, but what they didn't see behind their pity was that i gladly fell into your arms in the end.

if you paint us like pressed flowers, will watering the blooming golds really make a difference? for you don't paint love, paintings blossom into vivid petals, with sunflowers turning to their love, no you don't paint, your hands trace over the pressed greens, definitive and sure, as if fate itself guided your hands. so perhaps if you drew me as a lover, perhaps i would've sent the letters i wrote to you, perhaps i wouldn't have been such a cynic to your light, and now i sit and wonder whether you'll read the note addressed to you tomorrow, or when you're 30 and quiet? i painted you a bleeding heart, was it mine or was it yours i do not know, you drew me as a pretty, lulling turn, but i painted the way gold blends into your dark hair, the blue of your hands, the liner on your eyes, i painted you, and in a twisted way i suppose, that is my way of saying i would've been yours, if only the flowers we plucked weren't already pressed, if the flowers grew, through time and space. I'm sorry i painted you the way i imagined it would be like, meeting you for the first time tomorrow, i preserve the flower i wish i had allowed to grow.

blood dripping from your lips like sweet poison, hands shaking (who's hands are steady after a crime?). I kiss away every drop, each a seed of a pomegranate against my lips. I consume your sin, as if it were mine. my hands steady yours, and I help you hide. after all, what are we, if not partners in crime?

and I was out in sea, the waves alive and crashing around, the distinct buzz of noise from the shore, vaguely human to my ears. miles under my floating feet, the unmistakable beating of aquatic heartbeats. and yet, surrounded by so much life how can a soul feel so empty and dead inside? all mine wants to do is float in the distinct emptiness of my still-beating heart.

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

How can you not expect me to get attached when the first thing you said to me was, 'oh you've read that book?'

I don’t know, maybe it’s the way you said you’d run away with me if I wanted to, that you would hold my hand and I would lift my skirts and we’d escape this constant, vicious cycle. A blaze of hemorrhaging problems blooming like flowers in our trail, the vines did eventually engulf our little bubble of ignorance. So here I am, placing an eyelash on your pinkie, oh and if we could wish the world away. I don’t know quite a lot of things, I don’t know whether I should've ran, whether I should've dared to wish of you, should’ve should’ve should’ve done so much more or pulled back after fixing your hair. Is it bad, that sometimes I wish the thorns popped our little bubble earlier? Is it better you leave than asking if you would stay?

fingers crossed hoping in some foreign quadrant the variables might be altered, the five miles walked would never seem so minute then. dawning epiphanies graphing when our footsteps might align again, not defined when I asked, what that was, doesn't that answer seem so eerily familiar? almost as if lipped in another lifetime maybe? will it just be first impressions over the same highways? how will the fog ever clear, the lines ever scaled, if the puzzled tomorrows remain unsolved? rather we fall like raindrops in race, with no formula to grasp the path not quite destined to run but fated for eventual indifference.