Quick heartbeats, touching warm fingertips to cold lips.
Clutching the world to your chest,
watching the people run rampant in your palms.
Inhaling lungfuls of kisses and tracing veins in palms.
Summer sand and summer skies and summer songs.
Falling in love should not feel like this:
Acrid smoke drifting from a cigarette beneath your feet.
Choking on empty promises and washed out white lies.
Shatter glass windshields riddled with bullet hole as big as
the ones in your heaving chest.
Forgotten art and all things unholy.
It feels like this anyway.