this is the last time I write for you

we could be happy just this night, our hands fit well in the dark. maybe his fingers are long, and his palms are always warm. innocence never lasts, and i hate seeing you change from far away, just tonight. innocence never lasts, so when you feel my cold, now from my wrists you could drink my blood. 

I didn’t mind the pictures, not your smile, not your arm around him, not the bright, futile love. I don’t wonder if he even knows who I am. If all that escaped your mouth were my cold, my tearing hate when I poured out my heart. I bet he doesn’t know I pressed my face to your heart, that I held your hand and thought about you at night, that I fell asleep to the only song that made me think of your eyes, I bet he doesn’t know I loved you. I bet he doesn’t know sometimes you loved me too.

My heart stopped beating at the simpler words, the mundane idea that he reads what you write. Just the way you used to read what I wrote, just the way my words were always yours. Yet, hurt, I feel not. I’m happy that you feel happy there, that you smile like you smiled for me, and take pictures like you took for me, and wrap your arms around him like you wrapped your arms around me, and tell him the things you told me, all the inside jokes, listen to the songs I made you listen to with him. 

you’ll weave webs like the spiders on my bathroom walls, you’ll dry down, and the wet of my words will grow opaque inside of your mind. I bet you’re so happy, I bet you smile, I bet you’ll break up, or you’ll get married and feel and spill yourselves, to die buried tangled together but never belonging to each other, just like we once were, my love, my heart.

just like my first love, after the bell rung and we walked out with the other kids in seventh grade, when she loved the guy with the crooked nose and the short, black hair, but I wasn’t mad. I love you just like that, even if SpaceHey is the only place in the world where you’re still my friend. I love you like a nothing of me that I still want, and love like a child, until my last breath huffs out and my words are all left of I.

 I love you like the chilling poetry, wind chimes under my sleeves that I hide in me. I love that you’re happy, I think if you when you don’t think of me. 

My heart hides further back when I think of your moving mouth, lies spilled out like carbon dioxide. I loved you after you bent my veins like a glow stick to find the light, and I will keep loving you because my words the only kind of forever I have. I pour my thoughts, so it’s inmortal in some sort of way—it’s just what I am, an apple for your soft lips. I love you forever in the most insignificant ways, and I’ll find my way through life, observing empty promises insignificantly and loving all the hurt hoping it gets to rest at night.

I love you softly, I love you gently, I love you so little the wind might blow my affections away, and out from me. But the wind won’t take that little thing I have if I swear by the scarves and long sleeves. You are stained, marked for evil, like my parents are, like your parents are. But I will love you anyways. Insignificantly, I will love you anyways. Your memory belongs to me, and it’s far more intimate that your words will ever be, spoken for other throats.