kiss her and tell her she tastes like stardust,
and watch her shake her head
and tell you that she carries graveyards in her collarbones.
hear her when she tells you her kisses taste like dead dreams
and wilted flowers and too much blood from biting her lips
and your metaphors will never force anything beautiful to grow out of her skin.
kiss her again, anyway,
and tell her that the universe never needed pretty words from the mouth of a young boy to become
something magnificent.
it already was.
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