You Are Now Now Now And Its Running Through Your Fingers Like Sand Sand Sand And You Can Never Stop The

I like to know that I've maimed you. Is it sadistic of me to like the thought of you wondering where I am every time you cross a road? I like to know that I've maimed you, ever since you told me anything related to books reminds you of me. I like to know that every time there are scribbles in the margin of an old book, It'll remind you of my handwriting you called unreadable. If you visit The Louvre, my blood remains spilt there too, for the countless number of times I've told you about running away to France. Every time you look at paintings hung up in museums, you'll think of how I painted you our bleeding hearts. Is it sadistic to know you'll think of how I am doing on your thirty second birthday because I jokingly told you how I felt like I wouldn't make it to blow the candles on my thirtieth? Is it sadistic of me to cherish how you'll think of me every time you pick up a book, even when you're covered with sun spots and gray? tell me, would it make you wonder what could've been, if you wrote us just a bit differently? for I know that I've maimed you darling, but is it sadistic of me to not regret it at all?

I want to be fluent in french so bad.

With only the irregular rush of cars playing notes in the dark air, I think of how I've lived a thousand lives before and no experience of mine will ever be unique. Yes, it must be a curse to never know enough, but isn't it a greater burden, how with every try, memory brushes out of reach and I'm born anew, scribbling different patterns over the same black slate, mere Sisyphus rolling the stone back up, but not quite, yet again. In another lifetime perhaps my fingers bled more amply over the long gone green, but I shall never know, shall I? Soon, I too will fade again, like the stars burnt into my blood and at the edge of dawn, I'll become yet another familiar turn in someone's long forgone hometown. The same lover, hopeful yet and despite the ghost heartaches from previous lives. familiar aches of circling and continuing about birth and rebirth, like the tissues after tissues used to wipe my tears, discarded and never thought of once again. The familiar homesick sounds of the city lull me to a serene embrace and I think, how only the brightest flash across the night sky is when the endless stars touch something achingly mortal.

I don’t know, maybe it’s the way you said you’d run away with me if I wanted to, that you would hold my hand and I would lift my skirts and we’d escape this constant, vicious cycle. A blaze of hemorrhaging problems blooming like flowers in our trail, the vines did eventually engulf our little bubble of ignorance. So here I am, placing an eyelash on your pinkie, oh and if we could wish the world away. I don’t know quite a lot of things, I don’t know whether I should've ran, whether I should've dared to wish of you, should’ve should’ve should’ve done so much more or pulled back after fixing your hair. Is it bad, that sometimes I wish the thorns popped our little bubble earlier? Is it better you leave than asking if you would stay?

Do you remember when I almost walked in front of a speeding car and you pulled me back so hard I laughed? later that night you called yourself my guardian angel, which was funny because for you I'd kneel and join my hands to The Something I've never really believed in. But I didn't tell you that, instead I told you about how I never really believed in Santa or prince charming because Santa had my dad's handwriting and my mom taught me that to love is an afterthought, only fulfilled in heaven.

so you don't believe in heaven?

No, but would you come for me when it's 3 in the morning and I'm pouring out all of the ink I have on paper, hoping it covers the blood that runs 'neath? Let me slice my hand on your halo, when I need to feel human again? Would you engulf me in your wings and let me tell you about how sometimes when I cross a road I reach for a hand that isn't there?

I'll find you in heaven just to prove you wrong.

But wouldn't you rather be stretching your arms above to the eternity I can prove, I will prove, for I am twistedly determined to prove you wrong, right next to me?

but how would you know it's me next to you?

I'd know, I'd know you, I'd always know you, your branches would be the one's above mine when the rays get too harsh.

Feverishly romantic how the dead are depicted by the sudden fall, a thud yet graceful fall of an utterly blue veined hand. The last blink, and the mechanical writer stops, as if a last wave to the living, sleeping on the bed when your longed lover lies on the floor, an earthly blanket over their serene sleep, a hand falls when leaving quite unconsciously towards the beloved. Its as if gravity aids the newly departed to rejoin their dead, the hand now closer to the earthly buried, where their waiting lover lies, crept over with flowery vines like snakes and brown contoured skin. The thud of a hand, dangling from the bed, now so much closer in seconds than they had been in years.

Was icarus's fall so terrible after all? He would've died with a smile on his face, the sun all beautiful on him, setting him ablaze. Golden boy alight in his fall, golden are our kisses which set me ablaze and my wings burn in all their glory as you sweep my ashes 'neath the rug. The wax stuck to my lashes doesn't seem to scald your skin as much as I'd hoped and it seems fair to give it all up, for just a fleeting moment of your rays spreading across my skin, painting my lips, as if all the gold would hide the red underneath. Icarus must've surely died with a smile on his face, for I know I did in your smoldering embrace.

How can you not expect me to get attached when the first thing you said to me was, 'oh you've read that book?'

"i never see you getting angry, when i was your age i used to be so, so angry"

perhaps we're more similar then i think mother, i don't think I've stopped screaming internally since the 7th grade, the amount of violence it took to convert my tears into deep-rooted anger, but i listen to your sad past anyways, unflinchingly, all my anger directed towards my grandmother, and her grandmother, and hers, a long line of cruel women, who in turn built crueler versions of themselves. i can't tell you about how each time i look into a mirror, i see not myself, but all the crueler and harder versions of me, and i see you, the woman i swore not to be when i was little.

i cursed you for sacrificing so much, but I'm older now mama, now i feel the same rage as you do and i curse at how you are all i could be in the future, with the same screaming daughter inside.

what is it we find so dark and murky in the universe that we can't find in our silly synapses?