this is uranus: of endings and realizations.
it’s sort of picturesque, really: you on the porch and me still on the other side of the door, both of us knowing that neither of us has the strength to say what we both need to hear. it’s as though a chorus of angels powered by flame could appear and the whole world would still just be you, me, and our cowardice.
if love is anything, let it be everything. the words sit on my right hipbone where your left used to rest, except they feel as hollow as the cave your collarbones made in your neck. make. you are still you, collarbones and all, and i am aware that no matter how lovely, i cannot stay here anymore.
we exchange hellos like we’re still in love because maybe we are, but maybe we’re just tired enough to collapse into anything that was once home. maybe you are still home. maybe i missed the eviction notice and got thrown out anyway. maybe i still love you. maybe it doesn’t matter when the friction is lost.
the last time we kiss feels like a big crash in a song that i didn’t know was coming, because my heart swells from the beating it is taking and my brain tells me to remember how everything feels, tastes, smells, but you are not there. we kiss and i try to taste you but i only taste my chapstick and i know it’s all been me. i don’t know how long you’ve been gone, but i know you’re not there the way i am.
you leave and it’s sad how refreshing heartbreak can be. sometimes the sky looks like it’s made out of layers of blue, each more chipped than the last. sometimes the sky looks like an angry god, displeased with all of his children born of the earth. sometimes, i forget that we live under him.
when i cry, i do not forget.