"I believed!" you shout.
And lunge for me, and we end up falling into
a void of punches and angry shouts,
but you are so much bulkier than me—
you've always been—
so you end up pinning me
to the floor, on that cheap carpet
that smells like the whiskey you kept spilling.
And the room goes silent; panic fades
from the corners of our vision
just as you let me up, bones aching—
only in protest of the loss of your warmth.
"I am a believer," you insist.
I can only lie there and think of how
I painted the world with descriptions of you;
how you tried to fish for lost dreams,
with nets as fragile as butterfly wings,
in hopes of making them ours—
but you kept forgetting that hope
was just another tragedy we hadn't written
about just yet.
So we reached for the sun, and died as Icarus—
blindly groping for the truth just as it burned us
while the thank you's and affections
got stuck in our lungs, suffocating us,
fluttering like fireflies, just not as bright.
"I..." you whimper.
Unlike the silence
that stretches between us,
as it did much too often, lately,
pitter-pattering when it thinks
no one's around,
could no longer stand it's ground.
And I feel sorry for you,
my raging storm,
for we are just mischief at it's finest:
terrified and breathless.
We sink anchored ships of longing,
like the frantic desires spilling voiceless
secrets over the whispers you burned into
my trembling skin.
"I believed in us," you whisper from above me.
And I realise,
within the seconds, which lasted years,
that we ended up
screaming at the empty spaces
between us much too loudly
and that you, my darling,
decided to fall before
I was supposed to catch you.