I lie in the darkness with a thunder rolling through my bare chest.
No ripples are present on my ribcage except the breastbone that usually protrudes,
the typhoon in my heart leaves no scars, no evidence for me to prove that this pain ever existed.
I feel a physical agony beyond the description of language, a tightness in the lungs
reminiscent of childhood injuries, as if every scrape and graze was made by your
razor tongue and every bruise was from a blow of your fist. I breathe in ragged gasps
losing control entirely of coherent thought as my mind is invaded with thoughts of you,
memories all too potent but not quite long enough ago to be comforting, as if pouring
mountains of salt in wounds that are still seeping blood. You cut the stitches that I
gave myself with no anaesthetic and as the partially healed tissues rip and tear again
under your watchful eye, it occurs to me that this will never change.
I will always be infatuated by a person that existed for but a brief moment in time,
the blinding light of you against my velvety black sky imprinted forever on the back of
my eyelids. I could show you the universe, lie with you in the silence as you contemplate
my fate, paint the cosmos across your back and use the contours of your spine to
explain the concept of time and infinity, count the freckles on you and fix the pieces
that fall out of place when you push your hair back but I could never make you feel
the way I feel about you. If only my heart gave in so easily