Is the notion of a soul mate true, I sit and ponder; waiting.
I beg to be saved from your tornado of “are we doing this right” or “can I actually commit”; a joke
But here’s the thing about being a boy with a bookshelves of hearts,
Your sanctuary can be burned down and there’s no beauty in a fire fuming, suffocating and scorching, a heart being held for ransom; theft
I pluck vessels from my soul as I sit and watch it scream; surgery
Tell them how your name
Tastes of bitter medicine.
Curing but sickening
I fought to swallow it.
Tell them how my weeping eyes begged
for a dry night’s rest
As I counted the stars I once saw in your eyes.
Tell them how the bookshelves broke and burned as I held the matches; ending in a victory.