Tell me, why must it hurt? why must we feel continents away when our fingers can touch through your grave, through plain stone? i whisper things in my sleep in hopes that you will find them. they lace my wall and i think that is the only reason i am warm. perhaps they don’t reach you and i keep writing and it is only building the walls thicker than we came even though we feel as though they are wasting away. i will always miss the sun even though i run from it. i thought i could be myself apart from the things i love. i thought i was big and real and grown, but i am not. i opened my insides to the depth of a finn, a creature i never grew and she forgets to sew me up and i never took proper lessons. i am learning. i am peeling from the sun. i am me. and sometimes i want to sleep. because love becomes unbearable and death is just unspeakable. maybe i should just draw watercolor tattoos on my arms so they can see what i mean. i want things i cannot have in a real world, and wanting takes too much. i love you. i want to let go but i will never. because a long time ago in lands unknown my fingers found hands and yours were among the lot. unspeakable.
