What if we don’t make it?

Tell me then,

what you might have said
a hundred thousand times before,

when I looked over,
and I knew your tongue
was heavy
with the weight of words
I kept wishing
would

fall

free.

Tell me then,

what you might have done
at least once,

at least that once,

that one night
I asked for it,

that one night
you put your hand

between us,

not because
you didn’t want it,

not because
of that,

but because
I had not asked
with the right words.

Tell me then,

what you might have wished for, yourself,
all the times we laid on the roof to watch the stars,

the cigarettes
and gloves
and whisky

the only thing between us.

Tell me then,

how I am the only thing real,
when nothing about me is,

and all I am
is an ink-stained heart
that bears your careless fingerprints.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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