Do not ask me to stay awake for you. You are asking me to give you a part of myself that I hold very dear, because sleep does not come easy or kind for me. It is like asking me to give up my beliefs. If I happen to stay awake for you, then that happens. But do not ask , holding it in your mind that you are at the top of my list of importance and/or worries.
Maybe if I wrote more about you at 1:26 am when I can’t think straight you would read this and slowly come back to me and realize how much I love you and that I fucked up.
But then I realized that you were the girl who wanted love but couldn’t take any because she thought she didn’t deserve any when you deserve it all.
You complain about my cold hands
But I am made of little surges of rogue electricity
I shock everything I touch
And all I want to touch is you
To prove I’m not made of snow
I’m made of thunder and lightning,
Made of electrical storms that sometimes hit the same tree twice
But that tree is always you
And I’ll singe your cheeks the way I caress them
I’ll leave scars on your skin from where I’ve held you
The fingerprints I leave behind are searing
I believe in a deity and it resides in your legs
And your hands and the crevice of your dimples
And in the look in your eye when I am sad and it’s your fault
And I pray to her in the constellations
Of your pre-existing scars from wrist
To rib to internal organ
I pray to her in the sound of your soft “I’m sorry”s
And in your beautiful presence past midnight
I pray with every quickened heartbeat
When you walk in a room
And with every drop of anger I’ve spent on you
I pray in the taste of your mouth,
Every word and every kiss
you are beautiful
and so so sad.
you are a storm.
and as much as i
want to avoid you,
an even bigger part
of me wants to stand
within you and
let myself get wet.
You tell me that you’ll see me soon
But last time, “soon” was a week that felt like months.
I swear I could have drowned
In the salt dripping down my fiery cheeks.
And I think I did drown
The night you told me you were too scared
To even ask if I was O.K.
Speak to me, JUST SPEAK TO ME.
And don’t hold back a single detail
Because I want to feel what’s made space in your heart
I want to know what’s drilled holes in your brain
I want to see what’s made your eyes sting
I hear you when you say “I love you”
And I see your lips
And your teeth
And your tongue dancing together
So perfectly, forming those words.
But just like the way you’re too scared to ask if I’m O.K,
I’m too scared to ask:
If “soon” sways like a freshly planted baby tree in the wind
From a matter of minutes
To a week that feels like months,
How far can “love” sway?
Speak to me, just speak to me.
I used to love magic tricks.
I don’t know if what we had would be considered magic. I mean, it looked and seemed too good to be true but then again, isn’t magic really just a play on the audience’s eyes and imagination?
The way the chemistry was crazier than lab class and we didn’t even need the flasks or mixing of chemicals to cause an explosion.
Touches burning and lingering longer than your fingertips on a hot stove and we didn’t even need the fire .
Magical as in the way your lips didn’t have to touch mine to make my whole body tingle.
And kisses that sent shivers down my spine and ended up with me pushing you against the wall, aching to kiss you some more.
You chuckled and teased me but that only added onto my desire,
for every time you touched me it felt like a mural being completed, part by part and you didn’t even need paint; just the caressing of your hands.
I don’t know if you would call your fingers magical as they unraveled me like a cocoon coming undone and transforming into a butterfly, or was it a moth?
But I eventually got to your final act - disappearing.
One of the oldest tricks in the book. Then I remember my father once telling me when I was turning six, the first time I watched a magic performance during a wedding. He said, “Magic is not real. Magic does not exist.”
So it hits me, and I realized what we had was not magic, merely an act And you were the magician while I was the rabbit in the hat.
i think we found the opposite of nash greir