You're like a blue-sun catastrophe,

like how warm the thoughts feel in my cold blood;

star-clustered heartbeats.

I write about things that

most likely won't happen again.

I've dreamed of sending them to you

through the ashy shadows of pale summer.

The words fold the waves in your heart

into the falling stars of the withered seafoam.

But sometimes, these stars show up around my scars,

until the pain grows—slowly, slowly, slowly,

The muffled letters beat against

the silence of yellow phosphorus —

from one earth to another;

You may never know where the melody stops at.

But I know where our skyline pauses

until you replay it all night,

and leap the cold summer stars.

I write about things that grow wild with the wuthering time,

that accumulate in photo-stuffed matchboxes as our

tainted shadows grow longer.

I seal them with dry kisses

of navy faith, puddled

in magpie beats and vintage secrets.

About people, I loved and lost,

Lured and left.

Close your eyes, and it'll be over soon.

I soaked your name in poisoned starlight

and threw it deep down the crystal river.

The cherry-stained angel wings

burn and burn until you smile goodbye.

It's time to set everything free into the fire:

The bottled galaxy beats, the muffled violets,

The nestled cosmos, thick foggy tulips,

the century-old us reeked of pixie dust and maroon tendons.

We're forbidden, oh, dear — tucked into loss and life,

but mostly, butterfly blasphemy.