Your love isn't mine

I am a mess in your arms as I stare at your face. I try to memorize the way your bones cut into your cheek like they're trying to make a point and I wonder if that gap in your chest ever makes it hard to breathe. You are so pretty. You are pretty in the way that blood can sometimes be the perfect shade of red. You are beautiful in the same way that my bed feels perfect for my body when I am too sad to move four days straight, I try to count the colours in your eyes, all dark brown and gold and sun, fighting each other for first place next to your pupil, and I wonder if you ever think of me like I think of you, and before that thought even finishes, I know the answer is no. But I smile at you anyway as you lean in to kiss me. Because I think your heart is very tender, even if it isn't mine.