Van Gogh

His sugary mouth spilled out words that were soaked in honey, as if it was still 2019. As if the sky wasn't empty and instead was filled with the universe's eyes looking down on us, gifting us with youth and naivety. And ignorance. As if the years were minutes, and everything that was once nothing suddenly took me back. Sunsets, August sun, pillow talk, cotton sheets. Blue eyes. Pale skin.
"Hi May."
Sunsets, lock and key, August sun, cotton sheets. Blue eyes. Pale skin.
"May?"
Blue eyes. Pale skin.
Blue eyes. Pale skin.
Blue eyes. Pale skin.

"Ade." My daydreams undermined him.