It's a little too early to say your name and a little too late to tell you why because I've run out of tape and steady fingers so I'm just as irreparable as your heart and lungs and any other part of you that meant something. See, years went by and I was brushing all the names from my shoulders and collecting your whispers in the curls of my hair because I always believed your touch mattered most when I felt electrocuted and shaken from the truth you cried on my dining table. I've spent nights crawling from my bed to the nearest sign that I was still breathing and I've left your name on my magenta wounds just to satisfy my need to bleed for something. And you've become that misplaced voice that accompanies a mellow guitar strum just before the sun chases after the moon the way I still try to catch you.