We Are But A Gentle Sin, While You Hold The Gun Against My Mouth, While We Play Dolls In Our Sandhouse,

I promised I'd start journaling next year, this year i mean, that I'd fight the urge to cut my hair, I'd fight the impulse to stare for far too long down the road, lying with the time ticking in reverse unable to quite picture how you'd laugh, that I'd stop numbing the ache by forgoing to muse, stop craving the cough syrup, stop biting my nails, learn a new language by the time I'd have to wish you, so that my smile for once wouldn't be brave, my typing not repeatedly erased, I'd promised to stop loving you the very day, the clock hit today,

Do you remember when I almost walked in front of a speeding car and you pulled me back so hard I laughed? later that night you called yourself my guardian angel, which was funny because for you I'd kneel and join my hands to The Something I've never really believed in. But I didn't tell you that, instead I told you about how I never really believed in Santa or prince charming because Santa had my dad's handwriting and my mom taught me that to love is an afterthought, only fulfilled in heaven.

so you don't believe in heaven?

No, but would you come for me when it's 3 in the morning and I'm pouring out all of the ink I have on paper, hoping it covers the blood that runs 'neath? Let me slice my hand on your halo, when I need to feel human again? Would you engulf me in your wings and let me tell you about how sometimes when I cross a road I reach for a hand that isn't there?

I'll find you in heaven just to prove you wrong.

But wouldn't you rather be stretching your arms above to the eternity I can prove, I will prove, for I am twistedly determined to prove you wrong, right next to me?

but how would you know it's me next to you?

I'd know, I'd know you, I'd always know you, your branches would be the one's above mine when the rays get too harsh.

How could you possibly miss someone who isn't corporeal, without shape, without form? I miss him as the sun rises and as it sets. His hands I imagine, hold my face, our ghostly figures fitting together in a perfectly unearthly embrace. He's stunning, he's my darling, more than the boy walking me home ever could be, yet I've never seen his face. He might just be the best my mind has ever made, dethroning the poetry, the equations, the conclusions, my most brilliant manifestation. so sweet, so mature, he always seems to know what I feel before I tell him my thoughts. He knows me better than I know me, and every night we talk, the weights lift, the fog clears and I sleep hugging his shape. I know, I know, if I ever sought to hold his hand, I'll come away with ash and smoke, yet not without knowing our fingers would mold so perfectly together. I search for his face in every boy I meet, he is my voyeur in an empty gallery, he sits behind my eyes and I only hope I don't fall asleep before I meet him tonight. I know not your name, your face, your voice, the color of your hair, your touch. but I do know your gait, your grammar, the food you make, your sigh, your feel, your embrace and know, you're everything I could possibly want. what else is there to falling in love?

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.

cut my hand on an angel’s halo, he said he’d never seen anybody bleed, what happens when the blood’s just red and not a wholesome tragedy? thought I couldn’t stand your final flight, reliving every sigh while crossing the road, till I wasn’t supposed to be there anymore. guarded my heart with his, but what happens when the knife doesn’t exist? and what happens when the ribs pierce the heart? so crushing of a hug, left only to red seeping internally, while fathoming the countless leaving, and bruised knees from hoping for the heaven you met me in.

There is so much I could possibly do, what a terrible tragedy I am not immortal. What a beseechingly mortal remark, but I don’t suppose I would like to live forever, just enough.

I’ve died so many deaths Just in this one life The pause between the beats Long enough, to make me question If you would curse me for pausing time Every time you said that you were mine And if I died then No other place so apt As when the stars would rather prefix If I died only then, You would’ve loved me for an entire life What tragedy is death, when I get the pick the forever I most yearn for? Nostalgia wouldn’t send its tariff for I would’ve been buried, and you would’ve been there at the funeral, And maybe for once, the grief would corrode your heart, And maybe for once I could ask you to stay, when after all there’s no one you could leave.

I like to know that I've maimed you. Is it sadistic of me to like the thought of you wondering where I am every time you cross a road? I like to know that I've maimed you, ever since you told me anything related to books reminds you of me. I like to know that every time there are scribbles in the margin of an old book, It'll remind you of my handwriting you called unreadable. If you visit The Louvre, my blood remains spilt there too, for the countless number of times I've told you about running away to France. Every time you look at paintings hung up in museums, you'll think of how I painted you our bleeding hearts. Is it sadistic to know you'll think of how I am doing on your thirty second birthday because I jokingly told you how I felt like I wouldn't make it to blow the candles on my thirtieth? Is it sadistic of me to cherish how you'll think of me every time you pick up a book, even when you're covered with sun spots and gray? tell me, would it make you wonder what could've been, if you wrote us just a bit differently? for I know that I've maimed you darling, but is it sadistic of me to not regret it at all?

being smart is literally my only validation. nothing if not smart.

we are the next prometheus. will we end up like our own creator?