The Art of quietly reading does not come easy to the cluttered, cloisters, of cerebral matters.
Free the modern day mind of societal pressures within the pages of literature, where fantasy, fiction, escapism feature; there lies true treasure.
You whispered in my neck that you ached to bottle thunder, that you wanted nothing more than to seal a storm in with a corkscrew and allow the lifeblood of nature to tremor in the cusp of your hand.
You forgot, however, that hurricanes and people have more in common then just their names - you tasted the sublime like blood in your mouth, and were entirely shameless in your pursuit of the unconventional.
Why you couldn’t be satisfied with a vial of jungle rainwater, or that the ashes of an age-old redwood dusted the creases in your palm? This world was already spinning in your fingertips, you just couldn’t feel anything that didn’t still burn.
You demanded more, always more, but it would never be enough to extinguish the wildfires dancing under your skin, causing a crackling that would drive you to the fringes of your sanity, then farther still.
And I’ve chased you to the edge of every ravine, let my skeleton crack in tune with yours every time you eagerly let self-preservation be whipped out of your fingers by drunken, hypothermic winds.
You warmed my knuckles when they were frosted over with broken blood vessels, and I thought that meant you might love me; but one day I found that when I took a crowbar to my ribcage, all you could see was another churning river.
I couldn’t keep living as another cigarette you smoked too fast, I couldn’t keep being the tracks you walked alongside in hopes that you could flirt with the reaper without explicitly inviting him in.
You spent your entire life trying to outpace your own heartbeat, and in the end, you never stopped to consider that one day it might give up on tracking you down.
Now, as I clutch the grass growing over your bones, I want nothing less then to slit my heartstrings with the same razorblades you used to carve my name into your throat when I stumbled away from our wreckage.
I know that when they speculate on whether or not you were trying to die, it doesn’t matter, because it never mattered to you. I know I left you with the confession that your eyes were floodwaters and I couldn’t fucking breathe.
But on nights like this, I can’t help but wish I let myself drown.