Migraines can't be cured with
Grape medicine,
As colorful (colorless) as the bruises leading, paving, a barely-there path,

To you.

But I tip my head back,
Screwing my eyes shut,
The artificial, syrupy sweetness reminding me of the stories you told me.

About your lisp and once-in-a-lifetime silver statue girls,
The 12 a.m. buzz of skepticism and lonely hearts not as fine-tuned as the strings on my guitar.

The last drops linger on my lips,
As I wipe your true-blue skies and golden -no, rainbow- explosions,

Away.

The throbbing in my head will stop,
And maybe, just maybe,
The thought of you.

But only for a moment.

Like the flash of lightning in your eyes,
The tidal wave of sunny summer days and nights filled with tired smiles,
Crashing,
Mocking,
Drowning.

Slowly wearing away,
I begin to understand,

I have been embedded in cold stone,
A monument to you,
Not-so-reminiscent of those pink faces you gave me,
Bleeding hearts you stole.

I come from bandaids strapped to wrists, to hips, to hearts, to minds,
Chaotic music you recommend, I turn away at, I begin to listen.

Only for you.

Falling,
Falling,
Falling,

Only for you.