where the what if’s live

I envy running water, babbling brooks, streams and lakes that kiss every rock it passes, traveling to places I could only dream of slipping into the crevices of.

This room reflects all that is crammed in my mind. A jumbled hoarders den, heaps of clothes cloak the floor like a carpet, no hardwood flooring in site. Just fabric that doesn't fit me anyways. Cups are stacked up, mountainous piles of stale milk and orange juice clinging to each cup firm. The disarrangement grabs my throat, inducing claustrophobia; a new fear created by a restless, sick mind that can't quite escape.

Be careful who you let your heart grow heavy for. Be picky of the burdens you're taking on. When sorrow clings to you, it's hard not to reach out for any kind of light. Any source of sunshine. So baby, be careful.

Sunshine breaks open my eyelids and we are still intertwined. His hand, resting, hovers above mine, a pinkie twitch away from touch. Falling in and out of rem but still so aware. The slight squeezes and shifts in position, all accommodating our mechanical bodies. I feel you on my neck. Good Morning Sweetheart. You make me want you, and you, me.

I was used to dark eyes, pools of black and stale ash. He was ice. He was polar caps. He was the glaciers you wouldn’t dare get to close to. But god damn, was he cruel, projecting a sheer stare that dragged my toes to the edge. Begged me to jump. He cooled my fiery bones.

I thought love was the look he gave me when he released my throat. I thought love saved me each time I was sure he wouldn’t let go. I thought love was what he saw inside of me, what forced his fingers to release me each time. But later on I found out, love was what I saw in myself when I finally walked away.