habitual.

lips.
they move in silence
forcing words
that when pieced together
feel at home.
as if that tongue
was the only thing
that could truly
bring them
to life.

when I spoke
in broken proverbs.
hurt- was
placed in boxed hearts.
left on tabletops
and spoken to as if it
were a child.
fingertips laced
regression with a hint of
fire fueled by
indecision.
so this heart
it was beating rhythmically
to the sound of
tears
forgetting to fall.

and in closing.
my hands are shaking
far. too. much.
to slip
fragmented
miracles. between page
lines.
so these lips.
they're humbled.
and I fall now

letters
make poor
legs.
after.all.