"why do you always hum yourself to sleep?"
"because i can't sleep with too much silence. i feel i can never trust what happens after it"
"well it's very pretty. you're very pretty."
our clothes are caskets which fade overtime and such are the small reminders which make up kingdoms that you've shattered. one day they'll give out medals for our modern love. pinned on our chests like soldiers home from wars. i'll see how you survived someones infidelity (but mostly how it nearly killed you) and we can skip the nights spent learning why we're both so fucked up because we'll wear the scars like boy scout's badges. nighttimes will be better spent memorizing your elegant frame rather then its hearts disrepair because i can tell you wandered out of some novel and i'm always hoping to understand what made you real. theres that streetlight in the park where richardsons manor used to be (it burnt down quite some time ago, but you can still find spoons and forks in the grass). the light flickers orange in the summer and we've sat beneath it late at night to hear the ghosts. the soft buzz and glow always made you tired and you'd hum yourself to sleep. but all at once i became awake and felt like i belonged to the land and earth and trees and you. i plucked leaves out of your hair and this is the moon's light but your changing its colour.
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