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everything about her burns

 

This is a love letter. This is a lie.

You know how it is when you love someone. Even the stars stop making sense. You fall. You are fallen. It is beyond redemption, beyond the need for it.

Somewhere, there is a girl. her words are laced up, perfectly stitched in. She is careful not to breathe, not to let the blaze out. You found smoke in her kiss, in her fingertips. You’ve yet to feel the full heat. Her passion is both river and fire, two sides of a moon that pulls at you. There is gravity in her smile, an orbit to her hips. You draw closer.

Her promises are springtime, possibility shaken from the branches of a tree. Her arms are an offering of roots, of safety, the kind of shelter that remains.

Still, she waits for the reaping. The reckoning. The reconciliation. A kiss made of corridors and sunlight, her heart beating raggedly in her chest. She is tired, but she makes, and keeps, all promises. There is dawn in her touch. And she reaches for you without conditions, mindful of the obstacles. A laugh caught on the wind. A bee circling a flower. A breeze chasing the back of a neck. No, these are not her memories. This is not her price. These are not her words. It was never about that.

There is a hole in the world. It has a name. She holds it under her tongue, carefully. Her lips always taste of rum or whiskey; everything about her burns. She keeps setting everything ablaze. She threw her heart into the fire. It refused the injury, but somehow, her bones are ash. There is too much silence for her to speak. She waits, her body listening to the wind. And then, everything about her music.

This is a love letter. This is a lie.

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