dandelions with thorns

Your name is the song that escapes from your lips in whispers when you speak to me, a melody of words you keep like prisoners on your tongue, of letters that find themselves falling out in breaths,

and the sky is black and stained like ink but there’s a break in its line where the city lies, and your eyes beg to stop for a while and our bones are looking for a reason to stop pretending they’re awake so we wait,

and we step out and as if walking on legs which have never felt the ground beneath we press our feet lightly like apologies, your fingers framing stems of dandelions that dance in the wind like promises that have not yet been broken,

and I wonder if you hold hands the way you hold flowers, delicately, letting your skin be a home for damaged leaves, like the petals are the fragile fabric of a child’s dream,

and I laugh, but you bleed.


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