the drawing board has been scratched clear, and you’ll never be able to leave the impression that was once there.

you can feel your heartbeat in your face, see the blood coursing through it’s veins, and you’re ready to collapse as it all goes to your head. you could do anything,

but that was so long ago. your hand on my cheek, my lips on your wrist, and your face against my chest.

we were inseparable. like the heart and the lung, now you’re trying to dig out from underneath my ribcage. it’s killing me abstractly in the worst way.

if i could just rearrange your face, you could be someone else.

if i could just leave this place, maybe it will be someone else.

you can dream, and scratch at the board one more time. you can delete it from your memory, and everything will be fine. all of those surface marks will be buried under

pounds of make-up. it could be your life. but it may be an exhibition in an art gallery.

it’s better off getting covered up and forgotten.

buried under fragments of me that were once part of something we counted to the second.