Apples are probably my favorite—I don’t know why. it’s the most common fruit, and yet, I find myself lost in the possibilities of what an apple would look like between your lips.
Rue is a pretty word for three letters, it’s meaning even moreso, and yet, rue is the first word I think of when I recall the red of your rimmed eyes.
Ire is what takes Achilles as he mourns for Patroclus, and I—if needed be, I’ll ransack Troy a thousand times over to not see you cry.
Confinement sounds like salvation more than anything in my ears—my salvation has always been you you you—confinement is my sin to bear, my salvation is yours for taking.
Little by little, perhaps I’ll forget you—my dreams are liars with silver in their hearts rather than iron—perhaps, I’ll forget your face again again and again
Loose is my hold on my mind. It wanders through oceans in blued skies, through doors with no entry, and through an oblivion of light.
Everyday, maybe I’ll forget your face, your touch, and your voice. I’ll forget all of that and more, but know this—
what I have felt, what I will feel, I’ll pen them down until my hands shake from overuse, until my eyes blur in an attempt to make me stop—I’ll imprison them on inked pages sewn with everything I’ve ever felt.
The world can take my memories of you—they can tear it apart into thousand little pieces until my mind resembles it—and maybe my heart will be gone by then, but everyday I have forgotten you, remember this—
I have not lived a day where I haven’t relived the warmth your smile, your voice, your everything—brings me.