Look. Think. Have I read that book? Yes. Not so long ago. A few times.
We fall in love, we try to conquer distance.
I want to like your family but your mother is a moss grown rock the suburb wraps itself around the house she makes excuses for her pain you are a softer version with kinder bridges to the same fires.
I milk you in the afternoon light. Coveted books hangover cures. Upon beneath long gone blurry hills bury my face in my wrists. Blood beat.
You come undone, shed in bed sheets.
My clothes my nails the walls in the mail to your moss grown mother, handfuls of glitter.