lines

lines are the house you built,
the window panes,
the door that everybody leaves through,
but do not always return through.
lines are your sides,
with the body that you hate.
and every morning you step upon a shape
to watch a line tell you
how imperfect you are.
streams that trickle from rainbowed eyes
always make such perfect lines.
such beautiful, shiny lines,
over things that are not beautiful.
lines align,
with the person that you love,
like interlocked science projects,
antique vines,
antique viens.
a line holds you up,
even though you cannot count on one hand,
the number of times
it's allowed you to lay down
and give up
and let go.
a line made of bones,
ivory lego blocks
that build you up,
like you've been pieced together.
like a puzzle.
like a scrapbook.
lines are fragments of words and letters,
written in notes,
in sepia cursive,
or stony print.
lines that curve, or cower,
to create something more fragrant
and desirable,
than they could ever be existing alone.
lines are train tracks that take you,
to find yourself,
or the one person you live for.
lines are what stab through your skin,
when you see something you hate.
so red, like rubies,
and cherries,
and fresh summer lips.
lines trace our bodies,
when i lay beside you,
and feel you beside me.
and when we move,
ours will still exist,
shadows of us that could never be erased.
a never ending line.