that human noise

i forgot for a while there that you weren’t the moon, that i was, that i have held her on my tongue in wafers before even i came undone, that i called her “my moon” until the name stuck, that my cupped hands only raise in praying for her love - i forgot what i loved was that you brought her out of me, that you amplified the wild of me, that the whole time i was seeing myself, a better version, glowing and black and sleek. don’t worry. it’s all coming back to me.

august rolls over and yawns. wakes slow and heavy, stretching like a cat. outside, the sound of birds, the smell of grass. august turns over in an empty bed. his eyes feel swollen and tired. on the nightstand, a note from july - no one carries light like you do.

Okay, not to be fake deep or anything, but I told her that I loved her, was not sure if she heard, the roof was pretty windy and she didn’t say a word, party dying downstairs, had nothing left to do, just me, her and the moon.

if the light came down the right way it could have shone into the dark places. you said that i was an adventure you couldn’t swallow but you forgot about all the places the floorboards were rotted through. i am nothing but empty bedrooms. people move into me and mention that there’s a feeling of despair. people move into me but they never stay long enough to figure out why it’s there. i’m a haunted house, you see. good for a night and leave the next morning. i’m what gets your heartrate going but you’d never actually be with me long enough to call me a home. i mean for an adventure i feel more like a nightmare. i mean for someone who smiles a lot i’m barely even there.