He says, there’s a mountain in your chest and that’s why your heart always feels like it’s climbing, but I want to tell him that when I was younger, my mother crashed into my fathers fist like chimes every time the wind blew too hard, and I’ve been choking on all that music ever since.
He runs his fingers through my hair, and says "don’t leave me, baby"
and that’s when I know that he’s swallowed down more loss than any casket could carry.
I tell him about the poems that read like obituaries, and he wants to know what it’s like, to mourn the dead before they even happen.
I tell him it’s like waiting for the rain to show up for so long that you forget to thank the open sky.
He doesn’t say anything, but later he writes me a letter that says,
"if the rain ever does come,
I’ll kiss you until you can’t feel it.
I’ll give you a second chance with the sun."
StableDiffusion
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StableDiffusion
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