Your bones pass time in transient space; cell by cell, piece by piece, until all that’s left are fingernails and half-empty lungs. The new world is a bit dark and exceptionally lonely but your body continues to regenerate regardless of the emptiness stirring inside of your chest. You must convince yourself that this is where you belong.
So let your wrists harbour the seedlings of each and every tiny flower that deems you worthy. Watch your ribs rearrange themselves into a stronger form of armour that only the Lonely Ones require. Forget what it was like to breathe attenuated gusts of air, and forget the way your throat tightened when kisses and eye contact became as rare as the words you let spill from your chronically-chapped lips.
You are no longer a compilation of dirty fingerprints and eyes lacking any adjective besides green. No more will you be nothing but white teeth and straight eyelashes.
Loneliness will only rest between your bones until you learn how to breathe without lungs.
Crack the rust out of your knuckles and try growing your own.
