lluviadeabril
lluvia & rain
There it was again, that crushing feeling that sat in the back of her throat, carrying the weight of an expression that never reached the surface, never quite materialized a sound despite exhaustion in the effort to wail emotions outward, despite it all and the soreness and the pain at the pit less bottom of her stomach.
Now a thin wall, her chest quickly decayed - salt in hot water- as each breath peeled back a layer of will. Drawing a last, she cried out in pieces of her dilapidated lungs, regretting of the next breath that it would not carry in sound to him.
There it was again, in bouts of brackish crumbs of sorrow that sat heavy in the back of the throat and heavier in the conscience. Tar over the heart.
She thought of truths that did not make the surface, drowning in images and tears that love never externalized, choking on words that failed to speak when lungs could carry air when it mattered.
She would never see him again. That simple. He left not knowing, she loved him. He did not know how many times she'd die for him and would perpetually now and again, each time she felt like crying more, but without lungs could not carry in sound to him a single Wish you were here, I will miss you always.
That feeling, a mediocre whimper, crowning the esophagus no longer strong enough to draw air from the wind pipe and lacking the veracity of uncultivated salt.
Now a thin wall, her chest quickly decayed - salt in hot water- as each breath peeled back a layer of will. Drawing a last, she cried out in pieces of her dilapidated lungs, regretting of the next breath that it would not carry in sound to him.
There it was again, in bouts of brackish crumbs of sorrow that sat heavy in the back of the throat and heavier in the conscience. Tar over the heart.
She thought of truths that did not make the surface, drowning in images and tears that love never externalized, choking on words that failed to speak when lungs could carry air when it mattered.
She would never see him again. That simple. He left not knowing, she loved him. He did not know how many times she'd die for him and would perpetually now and again, each time she felt like crying more, but without lungs could not carry in sound to him a single Wish you were here, I will miss you always.
That feeling, a mediocre whimper, crowning the esophagus no longer strong enough to draw air from the wind pipe and lacking the veracity of uncultivated salt.
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