the fault

The fault, dead Brutus, is not in our stars, but in our hearts, that we are underlings to the catastrophic nature of sentiment.

If I am a combination of everyone I have ever known,
then you are the stitches sewn.

If I am the heartstrings,
you are the pull.

If I am the supernova,
you are the star collapsed.

You catch my fall and I feel your eyes
and your sharp angles find me softly-woven.

Extract, react, I most ardently do.
I cannot bear the consequence of you
but I try so, so hard to.

From the tip of my tongue to the top of my lungs,
I kissed the envelope and sent it off,
poured it into a too-small cup that ran over.
And you are the receiver.