↳ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

v

i. these dust-filled bones ache for a love deeper than oceans and my veins ooze ink splashed on piles of papers thrown on the floor because i never really learned how to just like someone. i was never taught how not to let them consume me.

ii. i wake up early in the mornings to shut the window because i left it open for you in case you were lonely too but now it's cold and my skin has turned a shade of blue.

iii. in the kitchen the flowers are wilted and the vase is shattered on the floor so i sweep up the pieces of my heart that you left laying in piles because every flower you touch dies.

iv. it's midnight and i'm singing the songs of lost saints. i hear them whisper come home. come home. come home.