There are bells wherever you go.
It’s hard to sleep at night — they ring behind your eyes, collide in the tips of your fingers. When you love it’s like a funeral, soft and somber in the gray skies. You never promise anything. You like to think you know better.
When he tells you that your body is a church, when he kisses you like a hymn, assure him it is not Sunday. That what he hears when you speak is not meant to be beautiful. That you only hit your rusted tongue against the sides of your mouth because it is all you know how to do with your sadness.
It is not magic.
It is not music.
There are bells wherever you go. They remind you how to say goodbye. Someday you’ll need to say goodbye again.