There are storms inside people we will never see,
People with faces the color of rain and insipid dew.
We find sorrow in ourselves.
Never quite sure if it’s the air that’s killing us,
Or the love we surround ourselves with.
One day we will find ourselves wondering
Why the air tastes like salt just before daylight
Or why the ocean has a voice.
We’ll see faces of strangers in constellations,
And not know why they look so familiar
It’s because we have been here before,
And these are lives we’re forced to live
Over and over again,
Until being alive becomes waves of verbatim
That’s why we fall for people who taste like poison
We call it love: to find someone more damaged than we are,
To steal the scars from skin and wear them as our own
Because the pain makes us feel like we’re living.
In the end, we are all just someone else’s ghosts.
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