my walls are covered in leaves and faces and sticky notes and paint. paint like the sky, paint like the bright blue water in the shallows at the beach that day. my floors are covered in clothes and books and paper and shoes. shoes that are muddy. shoes that have walked and walked and made it home.
and i’m painting the walls with sticky notes covered in your words because they’re prettier than any wallpaper ever could be. i tell myself every night that you hide in those words, whispering to me while i sleep and that makes everything better again. you make everything better again.
if drawing your face on my wardrobe in highlighters seemed like a good enough way to show you that i love you, i’d spend hours with the yellow and pink and green and blue, trying to mix them in the perfect way so that the light shone off your highlighter hair and twinkled in your highlighter eyes. and then i’d pretend that those highlighter eyes were twinkling for me.
my hands are covered in words and stars and hearts and ink. ink that leaks from my pen. ink that leaks from my eyes. i'm not crying. why should i cry? my arms are covered in words and stars and hearts and ink and tears.