limerence.

𝘾𝙍𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙊𝙉 𝙂𝙄𝙑𝙀𝙉𝘾𝙃𝙔 𝙎𝙃𝙀𝙀𝙏𝙎

It's hard to write when your head and your heart are not singing in tandem: my chest is full of birdsong, but the lightness of the sound is so weighted - a tonne of feathers weighs no less than a tonne of lead. My mind drifts, seesaw between heavy rock and melancholy piano: nerves, electric, pulsing, anatomy of gritted teeth, but the mind weeps, quietly, aching almost to the point of sweetness. Or maybe I've got it wrong. Maybe my head and heart are both too badly broken to make a sound; my body, a dreamcatcher become a story too full of plot holes to hold itself together, to even make sense. Maybe they are in tandem with their silence. And I am still left to find nothing.