1 minute read
S. Lyons
No. 022722
S. Lyons
Advertisement
I. When I packed my bags and left New York, I never expected to find you. You, asleep in my bed, while I tuck myself into your chest and make attempts to memorize the rhythm of your heartbeat; so that I might be able to pen it into a poem, or a lullaby. I was never any good at sleeping, but I think I may have dreamt you.
II. There’s something about the way you hold me that makes me want to unstitch my seams, step out of my skin, and show you my bare bones. But my splintered ribcage looks more like carnage than armor for my heart, and some days I drown in my own blood.
III. I am all wildfire, and you breathe redemption into my lungs. People have always tried to contain me, but you fan my flames. I think I was meant to trade you warmth for wind.
IV. There’s no stardust in my veins; it’s shrapnel and shards of glass. But your freckles remind me of galaxies, bursting across your skin. I want to map out your stars and name your constellations. I want to be an eternally full moon, not the center of your universe, but a constant source of light.
V. I never knew what softness felt like until you. It feels like magic, how you fit into my jagged edges, gentle and steady. You’re in my head like I’ve always known you. And when I weave myself through your limbs, as though if I could get any closer, I would curl up next to your heart, what I really mean is: I feel safe here, with you.
