You painted a hundred paper stars blue and hung them on my wall.
With cherry red lips, trapped between your teeth.
A bad habit you would call it.
Your vice.
Whispers felt like icicles down my spine.
Teach me how to dance, I know I keep stepping on your feet.
But it’s hard for me.
Under the warm summer sun,
Mud stuck to the bottom of my jeans,
You and your adventures
Will certainly be the death of me.
I lay in bed, stare at those paper stars.
Visible brush strokes and weirdly cut edges.
They look like shapes left undiscovered,
I’ll just have to pretend. Afterall,
You were never really good at art.-H
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