heartaches and earthquakes.

tonight I almost wrote the words "I'm done" across your screen.

tonight I almost took hold of my time and walked away from you.

tonight I almost changed your tomorrow.

you didn't know this.

electric words have a way of escaping your interest,

just like I have a way of escaping your interest,

and I don't deserve to be overlooked.

nobody does.

(especially those you promised your energy on)

and you didn't promise me anything,

but hearts are easily mangled by words we don't say,

and responses we don't make,

and conversations that get stuck to our tongues.

tonight I almost changed your tomorrow.

tonight I almost changed my tomorrow.

there would have been more oxygen, tomorrow.

there would have been more time for piano keys and boy bands.

there would have been more boxes filled and tape used,

fewer texts and less worries,

if I had changed my tomorrow.

and tonight I almost thought of you,

sharing eyes and thoughts and lips across the lawn,

cracking jokes about her

cracking smiles at me,

and cracking a bottle open in honor of all we share:

memories,

 high school, 

letters, 

kisses.

you kiss me like I'm rare to begin with,

but talk to me like I'm temporary,

and, sir, that makes me want to stain these pages black and blue

and run.

eight hundred days of hell being raised,

of bodies burning and sins scourging and 

me changing.

I paid my dues when I purchased my patience.
They're both gone, now.

I wonder how much oxygen you'd have in the morning

if I changed your tomorrow.

if I gave you back what our lips have in common.

(each other.)

if I returned your kisses

and stepped aside.

I wonder how easy you'd breathe these hours,
and how heavy you'd feel.

I wonder if you'd fight me or fear me,
if I changed your tomorrow.

but you and I both know

I'll never find out.