These are for you, flattened images of flowers he pressed with an ocean and I cleaned with care. Keep track of those lips, love, it’s the gift of trust that keeps us from fainting, without air, pressed glass sides pinned under the weight of what was, so tonight I won’t sleep and tomorrow I won’t either: my morbid nature compresses my lungs and your naive meanderings will lay me to discharged waste. These were his, the sighs of simplicity, and I understand history is a misnomer when I look at your slumber eyes so far. Taste the winter as if it were a moment, so tactile. I never was taught how to believe so I am deciphering Morse code in my lonely moments under a single bulb, you do not understand that your newness smells fresh on bared teeth of boys so be gentle with my chest cavity please.