struck-love

i was told, offhand

"you hold onto that thing like a rosary"

your necklace wrapped through fingers, and around my hand 

pendant hanging against my palm, leaving an indentation as i grip it tight

"...yeah?"

i'm not christian or catholic, or of any denomination but

i've held it up like an icon, an offering

during scenes, and songs that remind me of you

kissed it in my anxiety, and my affection

it lays next to my heart

like a tether, like a rope

pulled taught from distance, made soft from wear

fidgeting it round my wrist, wish your hand was in my hair

on the rails

my hands look dead today

tinted blue, stained black

feel dead today

the medication, making my hands stick

or is that just the nervous sweat

and my heart overbeating (overbearing)

or is it wearing three layers indoors

my ribcage could give way,

could cave in.

the thrumming inside of it,

acceleration to a collapse.  

we've made up (out)

of this mess before,

and we'll do it again.

staged up

chattering jaw

open maw

fucking freezing

sight receding

blood down thighs 

and muffled cries

body killing itself

soot out of myself

my shell 

my shadow

its not even there

i'm not even here

were we even there?

are you even here?

...

....

and then, his smoke drifts into my eyes.

sold as a set

i want to silence everything but you

you should be the only thing to bring me out of my half consciousness

you're like a spirit passing through me

energy in my flesh bone and tendons 

and i kiss your half of our necklace every time i put it under my shirt 

eating a hole through my ribcage 

hot boiling sugar candy

melding into my heart

though the other half sits in my jewelry box waiting

i know you feel it

i feel you too

going on and on and on

we should all just sit down

and think

think to ourselves about the time spent:
together

apart

together

apart

up
and down

and all over again
lips on mine

your mouth is like leather
keeping me warm
or, too fucking sweaty
smothering me in the heat of the world

never used to run so cold
your hands used to be the dead ones

guess we should both be