Don't ask and I won't

I woke up suspended from the ceiling with the taste of your lips on mine.
When I turned there was a little girl outside the window blowing kaleidoscope bubbles that grew into clouds. Her eyes met mine and she mouthed the word forgiveness but I couldn't understand. So I watched her absorb the sun until she was too bright to look at.

Last night I fell asleep to recycled concepts like pride sewn into the front pockets of my heart. By the time we said goodbye we'd shed more than smalltalk and pretensions and your sleeves had woven themselves around my neck in impossible aspirations.
'Did you know you smell like strawberries and heartache?'
No, but I never liked the taste of sand.
You tell me you could get used to the pain of melted wax the way my eyes pierce through you like lighted candles. But what happens when the flame dies out?

When you left I stood staring at the door, imagining rivers of acid falling from the sky, clover shaped bruises flowering between your hands and my waist. I saw five inches of linoleum and what kept us apart, and even then I couldn't create a solution. I spent the night with shadows and they taught me how to fly, but if you asked I still wouldn't lean over the railing.

This morning I thought if he was the medical condition, then you must be the cure. But logic stopped existing between four leafed apologies and staged confessions. I want to tie silk ribbons around us and kiss your cheekbones, but the truth is I'm contagious, and I'm sorry and I can't.

I woke up from insomnia and I still don't understand us.