maybe if i loved you less, i'd be able to talk about it more.

-

dead moths in the dark
and the white of your eyes
like frozen hyacinth,
your mellow arms wrapping 
the fragments of my heart,
i'm thinking of how i had let
your fingers plunge into my flesh
and untie my knots-
one by one each,that is.
wrinkled knots, looped up
in the caverns of my weird brain,
always making up some 
weird excuse to think of you;
of empty motel lobbies and damp kisses,
and the faint click of your tongue.
"sorry that i couldn't stop staring at your neck today".
i had apologized half-heartedly once.
"sorry that i clutched your clothes and cried to sleep when the ache of being that far from you was too much"
-i learnt to swallow words that day.
there are apologies better left unsaid everywhere.
apologies that aren't necessarily apologies.
apologies written in vein blue ink,
love letters lost at the back of throats.


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