~

after asters

when you tiptoe, it's easy

you turn to me with whiskey souring your tongue, sideways smirking like you’re something sly, but your hand’s already found my ass.

“you’re mine,” you bluff, bolstered up by a liquid ego. you’ll never quell your thirst, but so long as it’s still april,

I freeze all day every time a person calls my name, because it sounds so different  now that he’s said it in his sleep.

You clutch at me, And I carefully wake you from your quiet terrors.

I stay awake so that I can ward off the demons that try to haunt you in your sleep.

Which is impressive,

you no longer have an ax to grind because it’s buried in my back.

the last words you ever spoke to me, back when you didn’t spit my name with venom and cringe at the thought of my tiny, pale hands in yours, were about how

I’d broken you.

You worse-than-hated me; you regretted me.

And even thought I deserved the blade (and any poisons that came with it), I wasn’t prepared for its serrated edges, or the way you were aiming directly through my ribcage.

I had never meant to hurt you, and I’m still so sorry about the way it all went down; that way you and I

went down.

Years later, the first time you’re not too embarrassed to even step foot in the same state as me, you look at me with a face that screams of quiet contempt as you allow me to approach you at the bar.

I ignore the occasional bitter remark and its matching sweet smile, and I tell you with more honesty than I’ve ever given you

that I’d like to “catch up sometime”,

if that’s something that you’re cool with.

Your face turns red and you swear to me on everything that you’d love that.

With all that we’ve been though, I know that I should be able to hand you the noose and trust you not to use it, but somehow, babe,

I can’t see the ground anymore, and the altitude is causing an ache in my head half as intense as the one in my gut that won’t go away ‘til I’ve fully crossed over Ohio and Michigan

so that I can finally forget you again.

I’m terrified of the nighttime and the terrors that it brings, but still I beg for the sleep I barely get, and still I sprint towards the east coast at 400 miles an hour, and away from a potential (theoretical) sunset paradise. 

Your primary skill has always been your disappearing act, and over the seasons, I’ve quietly learned to love it.

While you’re around, you’re the whispers of every haunting, chilling, nostalgic tune that you always have been. The treble turns to memory, and then to trouble; you’re all the top songs of the topical alternative generation, and everything comes rushing. While you’re around, I could never forget the words.

And then you go, and it feels like I’ve fallen asleep for autumns at a time. Your seas kiss my months a short, sweet goodbye, and I’m lost in the mist. You’re not the fog at the top of a mountain; you’re the thick clouds that leave a sailor lost to sirens.

and just so, i am always grateful for your light.

when you tire out,

when your shine aches from giving so much so constantly,