Right through the face of you I can cultivate a thousand seedless planets. Stagger efortlessly over words that deplete into something believable. Something of it. A gentler blade than dried grass and a hand around my neck as I'm held against the wall. Something red spots between a crevice of knuckles. The irony that lies in being too young to hate someone. I fucking hated him and I could have sworn I did even after when I'd said I loved him.
The bitterness of venusian mercury tastes even sweeter to you when he says it. Precise. Far too chased and graceless to be practiced. A forlorn of perhaps. Believable. It's a shame that I had drowned in it once, too.
Truth. What is true is all of which I'd left behind in the hurtful kind, outstretched towards you. And from afar is where I'd hoped to one day see you float above them. Though with distance is where I see you clearer than ever. Routinely incompetences give their opposites permission to thrive. Clutching tightly to uncertainties and throwing away more of yourself each time your grip tightens.
A man's silence is innocent and a woman couldn't possibly scream of the truth. One that wasn't as sweet and made your tears water the seeds he planted over mine. A cycle paints over the cracks.
The panes of your heart have shattered underneath me. And I'm sorry for it for the rest of my life.
Though, I could follow his lead and put you back together without oxygen. I could whisper of voided promises and halfway honesty. But of that I choose to refuse, and refuse forever.
