i miss when our hands connected constellations, our bodies were oceans and our minds were just puddles. now, everything is just messy. our hands are split fingertips and broken trust, our bodies clumsy and brackish, intertwined with kelp and confusion, and our minds are the floods that tear through homes and leave us with lungs filled with homemade rainwater. we have smudged all of the galaxy's designs, the constellations have been strung, and water is running out now. the desolation we once were dripping with cakes our chests like fingerpaintings, asymmetrical and far from perfect.
