“you sleep in a foreign language most nights now, but the constellations still collide in the same shapes for both of us. they are still slung arrows and roaring mouths. pull them apart with your fingers and teeth, and i will cup my hands and collect them for you as you drop them out of the sky. solar shine on midnight shrines on the beds we made from darkened pine. on forest floors we wrestled love to its knees. living on flesh and wine. chemicals seethe and writhe. my heart bursts and blooms, unfolding messily from my chest and dripping with wishes. we shared our dreams and they ran through us like wildfire. do the gods chant outside your window in your room buried in such deep south? do they wet your face with war paint as you sleep? whisper in your ear in wicked tongues? and you start awake, clutching at your own skin and instead feeling not your own pulse but mine. drowsing so many mountain ranges and riverbeds away. when you step outside, strange bright birds sing out in wonder. the sun burns like a coin in the back pocket of your mind. the stars i hold smolder in my hands, burn holes, and one morning you wake up with a dozen tiny freckles smoking on your palms.”

(Source: weileash)