terminal.

you make me feel like
crushed black pedals from the wings of butterflies,
the metallic remains on the dead grass of an accident site,
the canary that hits and
slowly slides down the glass window in the
train terminal.

all this while making me feel like
i am lucky
to have the opportunity to feel the
sadness of the streets
to feel the ache inside my heart
to feel your skin on my skin
to feel like you're promise is actually worth
feeling like falling in love with you
and not feeling like falling out

in spite of the butterflies that lose their wings,
in spite of the birds that fly
but never learn to sing.

you make me feel like i could never leave.

and so we're terminal,
or are suicidal?

you make me feel like there might be
an answer that clears the stains of
these small fragile deaths,
and open up some kind of endless window that
stretches on to my hundredth birthday-

terminal.
because no matter the torment,
it's worth being able to feel.