His problems are the kind with tile flooring and badly kept secrets.
The kind of secrets that smell of blood or maybe copper pennies, the kind that leave a bad taste in your mouth.
His thoughts remind me of grainy film, or old Polaroids forgotten in the rain.
His breath smells of cigarettes that he hasn't lit yet
And behind his eyes is something intangible that wants me.
My problems are the kind that float on a breeze,
Those that are faraway some nights, but I've heard the moon looks bigger closer to the horizon.
My secrets are only surface deep. There is nothing mysterious about clear glass.
My mouth tastes of kisses I didn't want, and my body remembers things I cannot "unfeel"
He knows this, but he also knows he cannot stitch me back together. I don't expect him to.
I'd rather remain torn apart, so the light can shine through, but maybe only on the hot summer days that leave your palms feeling sticky.
My eyes show nothing more special than a drop of water or a blade of grass,
Yet his eyes are unexplored oceans or forests untouched by the shriveled hand of humanity.
He reminds me of a bus bench or a grimy mirror in a hotel bathroom. Something unloved and unnoticed with a lot of stories to tell. Just waiting for the right person I guess.
He makes me forget what I am. He makes me feel like my eyes have always held galaxies I couldn't see. I wonder if I remind him of the kind of rain that gives everything life.