Mirage.

half made love.

Half made love dies
in quiet hotels of miracles.
And, it feels like the burden of the sky that turns it blue,
and makes it blush like summer love does,
cotton candy pink
and lavender tied in braids,
as a distant myth of happiness manifests but only in illusions,
it rains and we say that the sky let us down by glistening down as freshly stifled dew on blades of grass that give paper cuts to our bare feet.
And the pretence that you held of holding enough substance, and understanding the difference between being beautiful against feeling beautiful, elapsed into hopes as your pretence became your reality.
And, hands freeze still midair,
As breaths dance into nothingness with no music,
with no air.
And, I wonder where do we go to disappear from ourselves?
Do we venture deep into our skin,
And find wet rivers of desire,
flooding our tongues like trail of kisses on collarbones,
That we use as a compass,
Often, a map to find meaning out of the word home.
I feel like imagined effervescence, reared golden mist escaping gravity as I slip into realities of existing all at once in the same time.
Metaphors of desires resonate in songs which curtains hum, and I find arresting threatening lights beautiful as it creates a mesh of shadows on my skin as your fingers play hide and seek to find a longing I had long forgotten.
And, to bury a moment in human plight and call it sublime identity to treasure it in personal bookshelves.
When I try to speak but think the void is important, the voice more.

Half made love resurrects every time we find another mouth to breathe yearning into, and nostalgia becomes pleasure found in grasped hair and trembling lips.
I'd expect the tremor to be delicate, but it's coarse, it's reckless, it's shattering.
Shattering then is, for the time when it's necessary to feel and hold every moment of the breath that breaks you down.
Love then is the breath that breaks you down.