I Am Holding Our Love In My Arms

I am holding our love in my arms

She is dying

She is bleeding out

I don’t know how to save her

~

I did it

I didn’t mean to

Oh god, what have I done?

What have I done,

My love

~

She stains my hands with

Memories of us

As I try to staunch the bleeding

Exhales butterflies that die on her lips

Whispers to me

Of everything she could have become.

Says she doesn't blame me

But I do

But I do

And where were you when it happened?

jem and tessa constantly thinking about and showing kit how much they love him added 20 years to my lifespan, cleared my skin, raised my grades, cured my anxiety, and gave me 20/20 vision

look

how

much

they

fucking

love

him

Kit is finally home.

I think I am beautiful sometimes. When the universe allows me to be.

The sun tosses herself into the arms of the sea

His vast embrace, the only thing she has never felt too infinite for

She takes comfort in being swallowed whole for the night 

Savours the sensation of being devoured 

~ oh celestial love, even the sun longs to be encompassed sometimes, for it is no weakness to desire to be held. you are never too much for someone who cannot get enough of you.

String Theory

About:

1. If god was meant to love me he would not have given me you. He writes this on your palm when the sky is an ink spill and he cannot read anything in your lips except the overflowing of magnificence that drips down your chin in rivulets of melrose perfume each time he kisses you.

2. Let his wrath come for us if it means I can spend my life coaxing your soul into each breath you take. You are dizzy in this jar of fingertips and closed eyes and skin to teeth to lungs to skin. Oh how you want to be as he is, falcon wings spread and scattering the Appalachian dust, each particle a wish to be carried upon cracked beaks and broken feathers to a deity who blesses the way your very essence trembles when he is near.

3. I think I mean it a little more each time I tell you I love you. Is what you wish to reply. But there are butterfly wings beating within your trachea, threatening to escape from your star-smeared mouth in tender waves of boyhood secrets and petal-filled laughter. And you are anchored to silence by the way his hands shake as he unhooks the saint that always rests upon his collarbone, his fingers brushing the fragile bones at the top of your spine. When he pulls away the saint sits on your neck, proof of his worship of you, even if it is damned.

4. I am merely another sacrifice. You think he whispers, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it was the cicadas, maybe it was the breeze through the wheat stalks, maybe you are drunk on his gaze and didn’t hear anything at all.