The truth is I love things that don’t matter, like the hollows where skin meets hip bones the truth is rainbows are just a type of light that has been cut open the truth is all your ex-lovers look the same in the dark the truth is there are too many hours in a day when I don’t hear from you, and it was the same number as yesterday the truth is lately my silences are mostly love letters, but blank pages look so fucking beautiful when you hold them.