I pick the clouds apart,
from it's crescent-dented shapes,
to it's comforting presence when I look at the crooked ceiling,
a gut feeling of contentment from lonesome nights and retro record scratches.
somehow, falling in
love seems like a foul sin.
so burn-some; heartache that
creates itself as a draft in
memory lane through my brain.
pasted onto the front folder of my vulnerable wrists, awaiting delicate kisses and wrist tugs.
somehow, falling in
love seems like a
broken window's super-glue.
so angelic and énoument.
I share a look towards
your heavens door,
where you await with
open arms and a
brainless smile that
speaks volumes into
the hell bent air.
it's confusing,
to think I can be so
vulnerable and blindsided,
so built upon the false hope of fairy tails that tuck me to sleep and cloudless forms of love scenarios that carry my adult life into oblivion.
it's funny,
that I talk so big about self love and cannot seem to love myself.
love myself enough to pull myself from a stoic realm of tears and denial,
somehow the clouds look better from down below.
I'm looking over what
the sky is connecting
and thank it's clever wits.
though, I feel as if this
feeling is only a look of nostalgic fraudulence; I open my heart to your two-sided ways, and make sure to love you.
as love is a way to trust,
I find it a way to make the best
of what's to come.
cloud up your wall,
and let it be.
