darling i can see your angel bones

(oh, they shudder so slight under your skin)and i want to write something beautiful intangible untouchable unreachable unfallible undeniable unshakeable unbreakable rhapsodically epiphanic anything anything; i want to write it on your skin over your bones so you'll never forget, (i'll never forget.)& i can only hope for it to reach an echo of what's in my head, in my throat (it's catching, it's catching my heart) only, (lonely) how did we let the winter with all it's coat&scarf layers come between us? i can barely feel you anymore. (i miss you, you're sitting next to me, i miss you i miss you) december gets my hands cold so easily only i won't wear gloves because i need to feel(i need to feel, i need to FEEL) & this might be a forced feeling but it's closest to where i want to be right now (oh, if only you could know just what's inside my skull when i close my eyes, i don't just think in words anymore; dear, it's so much MORE) i can't tell you, not yet, 'cause it's not so composed (i'm not so composed) anymore, this is a confession a comemoration a memory a feeling a weeping a screaming a sleeping a dreaming, i think i might be dreaming (i think i might be dreaming—)i'm slurring my words but i hope you still know what i mean.

darling won't you show me your angel bones again? i want to watch them shiver with every thought you think; it comes so gorgeous out your mouth 'till i catch myself living off the expectation of hearing you speak (won't you speak to me?) & i'm not done speaking yet, i've still got spring to go (the raindrops dewed your eyelashes so even the flowers were jealous of your ability to GROW past any expectation i ever had when even the wood was wet and blue went gray you still glowed so brilliant against the dull dull dull sky; dear you could replace the sun at such a rate) this is only nonsense now (rubbish rubbish rubbish i imagine you'd say) i'm playing, i know, i'm playing with my own heart this way (i know i know i just need to feel this though)darling your angel bones are showing again, didn't i tell you you had wings

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a/n: For clarification, I recently heard someone refer to shoulder blades as "angel bones" somewhere, because they supposedly are where your wings were when you were an angel (The book Skellig by David Almond deals a little with this, and I love love it). It stewed and simmered deep in my brain along with several others thoughts I'd been having. This is the not-so-autobiographical-but-at-the-same-time-relating-to-my-life result. It was written in a feverish rush of about seven minutes, all over a doodle I'd been drawing.

This is the first version of this; chapter two is the other complete with line breaks. I would really appreciate notification of any preference you might have between the two.

Sorry for the novel of author's-note-ness.