now, missing you is dragging the roses from my cheeks and pushing shadows to my eyes. my skin paling like photographs left in sunlight. my hands shaking, skin so sensitive to bruises. seeping over my limbs like carnations starved of light. the air feels like flower-water that needs to be changed.
there is a certain beauty in this disease of loving someone you can never have. it reduces you to a wraith behind curtains and windowpanes, alienates you from others as if you were in an aeroplane, viewing them as ants far below. after a while, you cease to be desperate and content yourself with a silent hope, a petal buried and forgotten beneath mounds of snow. it can bring with it a fever, heat wreathing and circling above your head, unable to be chased away. his absence starves me of life, shuts me away in a world of faded florals, grazed knees and thin light from dusty windows and an overcast sky.
