the insects in my stomach are dead [and i don’t think i ever loved you]

we are pliant
always betting on chance,
brimming with passing thoughts
silence stretching into the ever-expanding infinity
between our fingertips
oblivion infiltrating the corner of your smile
reminiscence stuck
between your teeth,
collapsing, dragging me down
with you as your words start sinking
inside my chest;

almost
a rhythm, a dance
empires falling to the anthem
of your touch—catastrophes in the wake
of silver-plated veins splain
across a blank canvas
our photos transient, saturated
in your scent;

we were overwrought, impetuous
our souls left with delirium’s kiss
looking to the stars
no longer feeling their burn
beneath our skin.