#but the last patagraph got erased by mistake so fuck this whatver man

[therightvalve]

I give you space I give you miles to lick your wounds because I think oh yes, she’s wounded. I think, saliva is a natural cougulant and that’s what you do when there’s no other band aid, no other medicine. I think, I’ve been wounded too and she didn’t let me rot. I think, I would take your pain and eat it. I think, I can hear her hurt it sounds like every full moon. I think, my storms are going to make it worse.

I give you space, miles over which you scream you’re fine and I think oh yes, this is what the ache does to you. I think, the wound is wanting of vacuum. I think, there is your blood in my veins and it weeps and wails, there is no universe where you’re fine. I think, I wish there were galaxies of your smile. I think, denial is sitting in your throat and it’s absence would mean the explosion of every burnt thing inside you. I think, my storms look like yours.

I give you space, miles over which you scream you’re fine and lick your wounds so I think oh yes, don’t you remember eighth grade sitting on the last bench smelling like happy? I think, this is where I learnt that sound is not limited the way sight is. I think, you push this ache down my throat just to hear me scream. I think, you want to know if my wound sounds like yours. I think, why am I sitting here waiting for undoing. I think, what did I do to this. I think, what did you do to this. I think, I can’t see you anymore. I think, I can’t hear you. I think, I stopped listening to our storms.