how many nights we can count, nights when we were tangled up like sea creatures: octopus/octopus, too many limbs, and never enough time for each one. i could have spent hours tracing your blueish veins with the tip of my tongue, finding patterns in the dark that painted beautiful pictures. the velvety darkness was laced with my curiosity, impish fingers tickling their way around mazes under the sheets. the hourglass tended to empty itself with an urgency so very reflective of the clocks ticking in your eyes, second-by-second slipping by as if they were whispers. there was some sort of insatiable longing in both of our stomachs, reverberating through every nerve. i could feel heat from my fingertips melting your skin, warming the parts that always left without a goodbye.

i believe in memories that get stuck in my throat, daydreams that make me cry. i no longer believe in accidents.