“Now he’s writing you down in songs about your voice, the way it used to crash against his wall of silence; about your eyes, the forest that they hide inside and all the times that was his only home; about your hands, the way they paged every inch of his body like he was the only language that they know; about your skin, the way you settled into him and how he always touched you like he was about to leave. He tries to keep it vivid in his mind: that first you cried - for his eyes only - and he let the salted tears dry on your cheeks; then you screamed out of desperation and begged for constancy, and all he gave you was something to miss. And you missed him like air but you still breathed him in and exhaled him in poems. Now he’s stealing your verse like he used to steal your nights, then get out of your bed right after and out of your eyes for days. Out of sight out of mind, they say. But you kept him inside. Your bones, your tears, your unwashed sheets until he came back and with the coldest touch he set you on fire again and took all your heat. Now he hopes all the poetry that got out of your hand can still reach his heart just like back in the day when the poetry that got out of your lips landed right on his skin. You wrote all over him, you made him a masterpiece. Then you asked for love too. And he took all your body, he made it his canvas and painted it blue. Now he’s hoping that art can still keep you together. Intertwined. And you’re wondering if you’re missing the art that he was or the artist that he turned you into.”
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