When you ask what is wrong,
I swallow galaxies and say nothing.
I bite down on the moon lodged in my throat
and pretend it does not glow for you.
What is wrong is that I love you.
That every time I look at you,
language collapses in on itself,
syllables burn to cinders before they reach my lips.
I want to tell you,
but the words turn to smoke,
curling away before you can see them.
What is wrong is that the world was grayscale
until I saw your face,
and now every color is louder,
brighter,
bleeding at the edges
like a dream I never want to wake from.
What is wrong is that I have seen you a million times
before I ever met you,
in reflections, in passing shadows,
in poetry written by hands that never knew yours,
in the spaces between stars.
You have always been there,
woven into my story before I even knew it had begun.
What is wrong is that you pull softness from me
like a thread unraveling,
like silk slipping between fingers,
like something delicate and dangerous,
something I have spent years burying deep beneath my ribs.
What is wrong is that I do not want to be soft.
I do not want to be unraveled.
I do not want to want you,
but I do.
I do.
I do.
And so I say nothing.
I say I am distracted.
I say I do not know what is wrong.
I make up stories,
spill half-truths like fallen petals,
just to stay here,
just to stand in the orbit of your sun
for one more second,
one more breath,
one more moment before I burn.
facetime ends
