Muse.

I have underestimated the quiet boy with quiet, hungry lips. Him next to me, sandy hair, heart full of upbeat rhythms and dubstep beats, bursting with life; a nonstop complexity I would never be able to keep up with. And I was filled with dark skies and cloudy days that he just couldn't seem to break through. 

I underestimated his ravenous lips as they tore me open and searched my thoroughly for something that I could not give him. He excavated me for a passion I did not own. Like all the mornings I awoke wrapped in a blanket of his messages were nothing. Like I should have known, we were college kids after all. As if sex should be the first thing you know with a boy.

But I had mistaken his desires for nerves. and I had found a way to connect every similarity we shared. I failed to realize that though some stars are close, they cannot form constellations. 

I could not figure out why when we said goodbye, my arms hung limply on him. We touched like distant relatives, when minutes ago my arms were unmistakably exploring his body, (Yes he was unmarked terrain) entwined in his hair, and unshakably on his, they now wanted nothing to do with him.

I could not figure out how the depression sneaked through the door so quickly as he left. It had invaded me, beaten me, and left me crumpled on my kitchen floor. Somewhere between half defeated sobs and wet streaks of makeup that I spent way too much time perfecting, I lost my self worth.

I could not figure out how the anger that flew from my lips was more lethal than not, I was usually a calm collection of raindrops that could not house flame. The thing that they cannot harbor into you about depression is all the times you will not act like yourself. It's all the times you will catch yourself spitting fire, and how the tears will put them out seconds later. It's how quickly your mind will transition from dark to light, the self destructive behavior you will adapt during your high, and the masks of concern your friends will wear. It's how deeply everyone will effect you, even the boy who touched you just for a night.

I could not stop the lines from forming, simultaneous with the lines forming on the page.

He whispered line of poetry into my mouth, between excerpts of his tongue. Almost like he knew that as soon as he left, I would write them down.