i look through people's windows
the old brag of my heart pains not only those of my own, but of those whose threads fray untethered, intertwined into a raiment as the earth drops dead, scarfing down the gratification of your cynicism - for I'd pledge to worship the stranger who was once yourself; cul-de-sacs of shadows protrude with each step I take. forcing down a concoction of regret and shame through the very veins that bleed tears and cut through my tongue, like a compass needle that points north, I'd wrap my fragility around your finger. metamorphing like that of a spine within the womb, yet I harbour contempt for and of her - and I can't help but drape my devotion in fragments of stained glass - maroon, melancholy, and hues, words cut through the air, and it hadn't manifested in my lungs - not as a thought or a question; rather, as a fragment of a past that was never imagined, the rancid sting of an ocean I'd conjured for you frays about, threading itself back to me through immeasurable means: at the subatomic and the infinity, and I read you like plath's fig tree, albeit you'd wrinkle at my feet before my teeth feast on a nimble reality - one I could pray that'd exist. alas, I look through people's windows.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆. . ˚ * ✦ . . ✦ ˚ ˚ .˚ . . ˚ . ✦
𐙚 you weren't mine to lose
