It's alright as long as it's something tangible, right?
Books and candy and Strawberry Fields forever.
Maybe it's those twin pools of muddy dark chocolate. Or the curve of your chest underneath your shirt. Or the slow fading of short black hairs to clean, brown skin, the blending of black and brown almost entrancing. But no, it's you standing a foot away while we discuss impatience and slurred speech and staring into my eyes unflinchingly even for a moment or two after you stop speaking. And now it's the scent that invades - heady and earthy. It's the breath of warmth from your skin.
The wafts from you so close to me are dizzying, intoxicating. I want to pull in closer and sigh into your ear. I want to come up behind you and place my forehead between your shoulder blades and stand like that for hours, sometimes holding you softly around the middle in a vague and vain attempt to make us one.
Eyes on the gentle bend of my exposed neck. The small of my back as I lean. The fabric of my jeans stretched thinly over my legs. And when I look up I know I have those eyes I shouldn't have and that stupid smile I want to take out back and shoot. I know you can see right away that I want you to graze your fingertips across the insides of my wrists, to trace my face with your mouth, to hold on too tight to the rounded muscle under that thinly-stretched fabric.
But you don't look away. You don't flinch. You raise an eyebrow. And walk away.
Fuzzy and melted and irritating.
This is so fucking beautiful:
and so fucking true.
Things don't have to be true to be true. This is why I write.
I miss you every single day.
But I won't tell you because I think it is cliche.
Maybe it's those twin pools of muddy dark chocolate. Or the curve of your chest underneath your shirt. Or the slow fading of short black hairs to clean, brown skin, the blending of black and brown almost entrancing. But no, it's you standing a foot away while we discuss impatience and slurred speech and staring into my eyes unflinchingly even for a moment or two after you stop speaking. And now it's the scent that invades - heady and earthy. It's the breath of warmth from your skin.
The wafts from you so close to me are dizzying, intoxicating. I want to pull in closer and sigh into your ear. I want to come up behind you and place my forehead between your shoulder blades and stand like that for hours, sometimes holding you softly around the middle in a vague and vain attempt to make us one.
Eyes on the gentle bend of my exposed neck. The small of my back as I lean. The fabric of my jeans stretched thinly over my legs. And when I look up I know I have those eyes I shouldn't have and that stupid smile I want to take out back and shoot. I know you can see right away that I want you to graze your fingertips across the insides of my wrists, to trace my face with your mouth, to hold on too tight to the rounded muscle under that thinly-stretched fabric.
But you don't look away. You don't flinch. You raise an eyebrow. And walk away.
Fuzzy and melted and irritating.
This is so fucking beautiful:
Click to viewand so fucking true.
Things don't have to be true to be true. This is why I write.
I miss you every single day.
But I won't tell you because I think it is cliche.