Your voice cuts sharper now.
Every word feels like glass.
If I hold tighter,
maybe the blood will mean somethingβ
maybe youβll feel it through your skin,
that Iβd rather bleed than lose you.
Nights smell like rain and rust.
I pace the floor until my shadow splits,
until the walls tremble
like they know what Iβm thinking.
You turn over in bed,
face away,
and I wonder if I could carve your name into the dark
just to keep it here with me.
I dream of ripping down the doors,
the windows,
the whole sky,
if thatβs what it takes to keep you.
Iβd rather burn us both alive
than watch you drift further out of reach.
Love shouldnβt taste this bitter,
but I drink it anyway,
thick as tar,
hot as fire in my throatβ
calling it devotion.
πππππππππππ€ 