a mouthful of sky

it doesn’t matter anymore
i listen to him
and it doesn’t matter
if his stories are real
i listen to him keenly
wide-eyed
tightly grasping his hand
like i want to kiss him madly
between those empty words
and stolen moments
on a crowded beach

sometimes
basking in the stillness
of a sunday morning
or sailing through the scary stillness
of a saturday evening
i tell stories to myself
it doesn’t matter anymore
if the stories are real
if my stories are real