As if a whisper, I still hear your name. Though with my tired mouth, it just won't sound the same. The consonants harder, like two vibrant halves of a pill you take to keep your stomach unsettlingly filled with something other than "I wish I fought her". The future ghost who tried to take your bright and shining Icarus underwater. Your love was that, once proud, now drowning. A sputtering mouth capsized, only occasionally crowning to speak of pride. "Though my love lives on, at least I know I tried," he says, "And you were the one to teach me that, I guess."
Like that tower window watched him pass a ghost, he dies with the sun, content that he came the closest
Like him, we're pushing wings from shoulders of upstart senses of either being too much or not enough. Wide in support, but so hopelessly rhetorical in boring holes for serotonin draining. Me straining up against your body, sweating bullets at the thoughts of "shouldn't do it" bits of breath beside my neck, reminding ceaselessly the indecency of you ever truly wanting me
Give it up, accept it all, your body built with guiltless flaws. Where we end is where we start, a gold star on a wish list only marked, "A little bit more than we are."
(A little bit more than we are.)