it's spun glass

he put my mom's vacuum together and kissed my forehead before he left for work.

i'm excellent at goodbyes but that doesn't mean they're not hard, and The Goodbye that should make me hurt more than any other ever has doesn't even scare me.

his mouth forming words makes my heart pick up speed, til we're stomping on real love and laughing at the future.

he slept over after the all-night party and i tried to stay next to him, but my heart wouldn't stop from the quick kiss goodnight, so i moved from our beanbag to the small, empty couch because i knew i'd never sleep with his heart so close to mine.

it's a problem, the lack of fear.

we made pancakes at noon and guys, he poured my orange juice. an hour later, he didn't have to ask if it meant we aren't cheap. but i knew i had to answer.

and there's a reason i have to try when i talk about the racing. a gardener can't be a painter. my skin still sings with the pulse of an artist but the portraits are tired, tired and alone. they've grown weary of the same brushes stroking over their flaws, and the flaws are sick of being ignored.

i'm sure i'll keep on covering. (because sometimes it feels like honesty and even i'm not sure what's real and what's not)

but now my dissolve cut clean the creamy strokes and exposed the old splatters beneath, and it somehow felt better than just okay.