what if soon the day comes that I can no longer present you with the words you crave because my craft I no longer possess the dexterity for and I cannot seem to say the right things that will accurately describe how the dusty pink of your lips and the tiny scar marring them have now established some kind of permanent dwelling in my head, what if I tell you I don't wish for you a home in my thoughts, but you are all I think about.
i tire of life, more than most, it's hard to live without a sense of belonging but then I met you and then I met longing; a foreign, tumultuous ache. The kind that stripped me bare and kept me up, wide-eyed, on the most vulnerable of nights, the same ones the holy grail came to me in the form of lit-up dialogues on radiation-emanating cells clutched in the kind of earnest and excitement that could only belong to someone in the throes of the beginnings of infatuation.
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