i've held on to promises as strong as paper hands

I miss those junes, the way we peeled away the blue husks of dusk
until our mouths were full of light.  full of star kernels.
the way I nearly kissed you, trying to scrape off moonlight from
the edges of your lips.  how I didn't want you to touch me —
for fear of breaking the galaxies that formed like spiderwebs
over the surface of our skin.
but I knew we would float away with a louder breeze
how we could turn even our light into darkness if we moved;
and I don't think you'll ever know how badly I wanted to unhinge you
from your wet, leaking sorrow, from the darkness that swallowed you into corners that I can't find
but all I am left with are my words, and the rainfall i collect
from beautiful places.
my heart is a museum of broken things and I am made
of forest fires. when you left, I doused my words in gasoline
burnt my love, my sorrow, the darkness that I swallowed
from you.  you burnt holes in my heart,
and there's a shipwreck in between my ribs
for I am a box with 'fragile' written all over it,
but you never handled me with care.
I guess I will peel my skin off of yours
as if leaving is the same thing as molting,
(sometimes I forget that I am only a shadow)
and I swear by morning you won't even remember my name.
The drowning.  Your skies.
I haven't touched you since —
for every time you held my gaze,
I feel like I've become an ocean that never ceases to ripple
and the stones that nestled in the bottom of my stomach
would turn over in their seats.
And sometimes our love falls out of the realm of your lips and my lips,
memories of our bodies, our skin
of your hair touching mine, gently
like two winds colliding.
I wish you understood my kind of drowning.