1820 | green to gold and gold to brown |

It is not a pain in the chest as much as it is an emptiness, a hollowing out of. And the welling water in the eyes hangs on the ridge of the lids, above bending lashes, the surface of rain that never falls. A feeling that is freeing but you step away from it because you do not think you deserve it. It is always there, just waiting for you to say yes, wanting you to embrace it, but you do not, and the chest is a cavern and the eyes are glass and you covet most the moment right before the water breaks. And by "you" I mean "me."