v5656e

 i have your ribcage, you said. what should i put in it? i told you i'd always wanted a fire, the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight and pump my blood full of passion, but you're made of wildflowers, you said. a fire would burn you to ash. you wanted to fill my chest with the sound of a train, whistling far away in the night; with the sound of rain smacking leaves; with the sound the wind makes when it seems like it's trying to speak and you wanted to throw in the smell of midnight in august and the feeling of sand being sucked out from under your feet when the ocean inhales, and the strange little moment of bitter