lighten these lonely muscles like cords dropping
the popping of knee caps,
hyper-extension and the pressure releasing
fluidity like noise
these gestures must be made bigger,
glances speaking like setting while words build weaker characters,
we leave to write our fables and walk down the street with them holding hands
clutching nails into knuckles to bleed a solution,
a more natural response to an ending.
Leave town and be forgotten,
Stay here and get pushed out
out into what?
out into who?
The victor in you can't voice a story, they can only write one.
What we won't allow to push past these pages will, and what tries to
can come flowing back
with a history contextualized by those who have shed and lost the most
-and if I feel like I lose anymore-
no, i'm losing more.
I've lost more.
I've felt n' feared the cyclical nature of these things
and I want it to be beautiful to tell each other that
if you were shown secrets as heat waves,
they lied about only being visible from a distance.
I can see summer rising out of my footsteps
and I want to hold what we can share closer than the warm air filling my lungs