Feel.

From the time you said it back
til the day my lungs turn black,
by the fire in my veins,
it'll never be the same.

There is nothing I don't want to know, phasing open windows and breathing in the truth. I take the world at face value and place my highest bet. You're too real, I'd say, before I'd tumble down onto the ground, and you're the place I've lost inside an empty bubble. Can you feel it when I talk? Can you close your eyes and pretend? And we could pretend. And I could dream. And I could taste. And I could touch. And I can feel the weight of you under my fingertips pressed down into the mattress like a lost sacred resting place, you fight to get in. There's a slow, empty throbbing that pushes nothing and takes everything with it. Draining. Dropping. Dazed. Distant. I've got miles and miles of paper wound over hills and treetops filled with the words I keep hushed under my breath when I dare to speak them, and every last letter is just for you. I've made a thousand wrong turns in this maze of life and I'm waiting to cut a corner and see more than a wall or a sign of warning. After this, let's fall back for a while. Let's extract every nerve ending and get all the sighs and the moans just right. It would come off lyrical, wouldn't it? There will never be a universe in which I am the best or the prettiest or the smartest or the only. There will never be a universe where I can pull myself away for more than a catch of breath. I'm not like the rest, I'm thorns and daggers and claws and teeth and all completely harmless somehow. You knew. You knew the danger wasn't for you, but for all the monsters you're scared of. You're learning. That you can be scared of monsters all you want because I'm different and hasn't anyone ever kept you safe before? You have lines and creases and curves and marks and stars I feel I can't ever reach. Tighter grip, dig your nails in. Hey, you. You. You. There was broken glass on the sidewalk and loud noises from the turntables near the entry way and I stepped back and covered my ears and sighed so slow I could hear the shake in my chest before I even let it out. I grip too hard sometimes, leaving damage in the wake of my fingertips and little lines and elipses of 'I wish you hadn't done that', as is customary for someone like me. But we have these things, and we're making more. Like artists in a blank room filling up the canvas from the floor to the ceiling, covered in paint and laughing and joking and sitting and waiting for inspiration to strike again inbetween, there haven't been any more before you where the wind feels okay a thousand stories up and I just don't want to jump. I don't want to jump. I liked the way it felt when I smeared the green bottle and tossed it back and felt it rip me apart and spat blood from my stomach. Then the panic set in and I saw red and thought 'Her. Okay, please don't let me never talk to her again.' and my stomach turned and blood covered the carpet. And that could've killed me, and it should've, and I'm floating. Six underground after dark in the last of the funeral songs. Hey, you? Could you be that way some more? It's pouring rain onto the houses and the streets and the sidewalks are empty and flooded so there's something to talk about in the morning. It hurts for the sake of hurting sometimes, unsuitably stupidly so, but there's nothing for it but to ride the storm out. And we could dream. And we could taste. And we could touch. And I could feel the emptiness of it pressed down into the mattress like a lost scared child. Hey, you? Could you be a little closer sometime? You're too far away for me to grab you like I want, fingertips and nails and arms with my face pressed up against your collarbone like the dream I never told you about. Hey, you? Could you be a little closer sometime?