your heartbeat is holy

nausea like the kind you get at 4am after four glasses of wine and nothing to keep them down. music in your ears at a volume that’s too loud but any lower and you bet you could hear your own heart. thoughts hurtling at the speeds you drive when you’re heartbroken and high and you try to catch them, to pin them down in the thresholds of your head, but fingers close around air instead.

“pull me closer,” you beg.¬†knowing skin cannot press itself any harder against skin but craving the touch of something deeper and more intimate than that.