Juliet Jewelery Box

I will never see. I will never feel. I will laugh about this when my heart isn’t beating. I will yearn for it when my heart isn’t beating. I want to sleep it away but where will I run? I will wake up again and I’ll wish it had never started. This hadn’t ever. I will think and wish and maul it away. Form my eyes. My ears that bleed with this voice. From my skin that is forever living in the limbo of a wound. Things heal and mend. But things leave scars. Then when I die, I’ll think of you maybe. When I’m walking, holding another hand, I will think why I saw your eyes. I will think about and feel all the longing of a meeting that never happened. I will think of every word and song and pain and sweetness of the whole damn rotting roses in a Juliet jewelry box. Somewhere in clever lines and vulnerable eyes and footsteps and fingers and paper and ink and water and madness and salt and blood that runs down, in reverse and gushes forth. I knew a boy once. A boy who would never sit on my bed with a book in his remembered hands and a lump of an anal girl between his knees with her head on his heart and incoherent mumbles to his blood and whispers through his shirt. Words to the song of his heart. Song to her words. Two pairs of sleepy feet curling into twin foot-shaped commas of foetal embrace on a quiet afternoon. When afternoons like hands, are remembered and are lovely and exist and live and breathe as a boy who I knew once, with a lump of a girl between his knees.