how it all comes back

remember those summer nights; how we burned
too bright, too fast
swallowing lanterns in our sleep
we burned holes in ourselves
trying to make light
from underneath our skin

remember that night we found out
that our bones were made of flint?
you held me gently like a sound ricocheting inside your ribs
and i folded so deeply into myself,
into corners i wished you'd never find

there is a drought and there is a drowning.
you're beautiful like run-on lines
the kind that trails off like an ellipsis
unravels, and twines around my neck
but i cling to it, like a thread of hope
and start bleeding colours that neither of us
have ever seen before.
to love, is to tangle.

how many times can you write a poem
about the same city? the walls are growing thin
and the sidewalks are cracking
from holding up the weight of lives we used to live.
but i swear, for moments
there were forest fires in your eyes
and words that burned the edges of your lips.

there are tornado warnings every time
i think of you; of the oak trees, the wind, the sun lapping our cheekbones
we live in different worlds,
but i know we see the same skies.

i hope there are days where you find out
that you're still so full of light.