Time is a constraint.
Do I still love your flower heart, or do I just need your lungs to breathe?
There are too many empty passages that do not know your summertime eyes, they fail to speak of your toacco lips. You said that you'd always love me, but was that a promise you meant to keep?
Do I love you for your heart, your soul, or just for what we used to be?
Time is a constraint,
back then we were in love,
and now I am alone.
My fingertips won't stop whispering about you,
my soul is collapsing in my ribcage,
and I wonder why I can't stop thinking about you.
YOU ARE READING
high
Teen Fiction"that boy was just like the cigarettes he smoked. and our story was no metaphor."
