we are two parts suicide, one part skepticism.

they say, tell me about him.

so i tell them about how:

your knuckles are a story of loss and work
and i like to press them against my
smooth, inexperienced
cheek
and laugh at the ridiculous contrast
i've created.

your worry is venemous and it
infects my limbs rapidly
dragging me down
with paranoia of my own.

your eyes glitter like an explosion
and i would burn to
death
in your gaze
because some things are better
than asphyxiation
from jumping off the Royal Gorge Bridge,
but not many.

your tears burn holes in my memory.

you are more than i
remember
every time i see you.
more:
handsome, caring, brilliant,
ridiculous, intruiging,
lovable
and i love you more every single time
and sometimes when i lay in bed i
wonder if i'll ever burst.

i never thought mowing lawns could be so
dangerous
so i worryandworryandworry
every day
that you won't come home
or that you'll return without a
limb
or an eye
or you'll be in a coma
when i see you next.

when i see the sky
i always think of you and your
obsession with storms
and sometimes i can see
the outline of what comes next
in that cloud you used to say
looked like a tornado cloud.

i tell them about how i love you
but you aren't the only one who
doesn't believe me.