What if I die of a dream

a lifetime (maybe lifetimes) of longing.

*whispers poetry to him as it forms on my tongue

when you can't touch them but they can feel you all the same.

I miss the forest, I miss my heart.

the softest kind of dying.

the tiniest light filtered through seemingly impenetrable branches and somehow reached the forest’s heart.

he’s gone.

I’m sorry and I miss you.

I don’t deserve to breathe, so don’t think I’ll fucking shine.

are you a labyrinth or a maze

punched myself in the heart.

this will never be okay.

I have to try not to read you because then I want to talk to you and I know that I can’t, not now. but I keep reading you because I miss you like hell. and then I miss you more and my heart hurts and I don’t know what to do.

you said you can’t hear me say sorry anymore as it just makes the hurt worse, but it’s the only word left.

I read him and I cry.