imperfect
We will circle eachother in a metaphorical boxing match soon enough, dancing around one another delicately and exchanging punches, blow for blow, in some momentous battle of epic proportions. Float like butterflies and sting like teddybears, as I could do you no harm. Each jab is a cheek kiss, soul-searching question, mutual laughter, hands-held skipping through the streets, inspiration, coffee and cigarettes, pillow fight, breakfast-in-bed, mind-excavation, sunny-day picnic on a red and white checkered blanket with sun tea and poetry and serenades on acoustic guitars while you sit up in a tree and then I chase you around the sandbox and we remember being ten and after the fairy dust wears off I fall back into nineteen and just lay in the grass with you appreciating every single molecule on this earth until our conversation falls into flowery run-on sentences such as this one---- I can't wait for you to just bludgeon me in the face. Don't pull any punches, as I won't be. If you couldn't tell, I don't dip my foot in the pool to test it's temperature and then, slowly but surely, inch-by-inch, submerge myself. I dive right in, headfirst and drown myself.