i think of you when my fingers reek of smoke,
when i'm so high yet so low, not even poetry makes it better
so i drunk dial you at three in the morning,
we talk of cyanide and carbon compounds like they're the things that keep us sane
sometimes in between breaths you let your dreams slip in
i whisper your secrets to lemon water at noon
sometimes i wonder why the only the times you wish to open up now is when i'm not even sure i'll remember what you say
grey is your favorite color because it reminds you of neutrality
i kiss other lips hoping they'll make me forget yours
but each time my lips touch someone else i'm only counting the seconds till they begin to taste like you
your voice is a half baked brick kiln , your skin a stretch of sand and wheat
i don't know whether to laugh or cry knowing my metaphors will only ever make sense to you
when i told you i loved you, you handed me a cigarette
when i look at you my throat still clogs up on the smoke
you still hear voices, and i still prick my finger on shoelaces
we're roses growing out of wrists, and i can't decide when you're the lighthouse and when the storm
you told me you had darkness growing under your skin,
but i've seen you paint yourself red with agony
i still remember you looking at your ceiling fan like it was your way to happiness
i looked at you like you were mine
you still are
and i can still see you
but i don't know where you are
anymore