don’t start seething when i don’t answer your letters.

i’m just tired of the black ink flow,

salt drip turning my irises green.

yes, you probably like them better that way

but they sting the wounds you’ve somehow inflicted

on what was once said to be the most guarded soul.

if only i could float on wings molded from my sentences

and catch the words i write with outstretched hands,

i could create starlight all by myself.

and you would be so blinded by the liberty i’ve fabricated

you would crash through the clouds and lie,

winter-thin and broken, on the pavement below.

now i’m perched on the crescent moon,

bare feet dangling in the clawed shadows 

and i wonder how much i could’ve loved you 

if i were still on the ground.

i would’ve risked everything for your scorpio smile.

i’d let the birds peck spiderwebs in the mirror

just to see you and your ink-stained fingers again.