When he pulled up to her drive, it was spring but it looked like summer, and she saw his car as a chariot into the sunset, she must’ve known when he smiled, she’d let her heart tumble away from her, and we watched it shatter on the grass, like it was dipped in liquid nitrogen. But the sun had to set, and then came the night, so she’s crying into the wind and asking why it hurts like this, to be ignored like this, but we never knew the answer. Then, weeks went by, summer spun an illusion of winter, like a web of frost, so now it’s cold in July, and she’s alone again, wishing she could take him like a drug, washed down with poison, but the sun will rise, and it will be spring once more.
for k.f. (via juxtapos-ition)
I'm inspired
