To my favorite shape

You admire from afar, we climb on the edges of sharp stars

and often times we end up cutting our lips on them

because we asked if kissing meant that it would hurt,

they say why of course, it only hurts if it’s real,

so if it’s there,

so if it’s real,

so if it’s the truth,

then it must be painful, then it must be.


There are times when I question if you are

more real than the constellations

because I can’t see everything that makes them up,

but I see you and everything that is you,

like an open window during early June

or a crying sky right before spring arrives.


The flowers bloom with agony and

the stars cry their twinkling despair,

does it end well for the star-crossed lovers,

does it end well for the love that is envy…

We ask too many questions and

we do and we are and we will

end up with empty answers,

we’re always in a rush to die,

our time here won’t be long,

but that’s the fun part,

the silent dance when I step on your feet

and you on mine,

we let the salt rest on tender veins,

we let the dew ask about the rain and

if it hurts and if it’s real then

we don’t need any periods to end sentences

like how you start silence

or how you use none to say goodbye

or how I could get away the pain inside this chest

or how I could love you until my eyes fade out

or how screams sound just so lonely if

no one hears us,

and I do love you

I just…


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