wynesthesia:

Sometimes I forget to breathe and my soul leaks out,

It pours in opaque streams of color.

There are wisps that rasp and ask if you’ll love me,

Ask if you know what my colors are,

Ask if you’ll pour back in through your mossy eyes of mischief.

I have to believe there are fairies at work,

But I want this to be real.

I try not to want this to last.

Maybe that’s wrong.

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