i cannot empty my pockets of memory, of want, of affection or conundrum, of paradox or paradise. youre all free-floating, smoldering eroticism, six degrees of sexy sarcasm; the smile without the cheshire cat, the attribute without the subject.
i am rebel and emotional attachment (i don't care if you're just at a 2 out of 10 and i'm at 9 - maybe someday we'll work up to something real, that kind of palpable, shimmering... love, the kind that's so potent you can see it between two people - that's the other thing i wished for at 11:11. but it's okay if we don't, i understand the way you struggle through such a thing, i just wanna hold you, look at you, be around you, adore you if that's all i can get, unable to win even a scrap of your heart) and bone all rolled up in one skinny fifteen-year-old body. i am unable to stop touching you. together, we're a single twist of pale flesh and lips and tongues. li ha'eer - i look at you and suddenly i'm wet to my fucking knees.
i wanna reach past your sternum, touch your ribs, taste your blood, heal your heart: i couldnt stop watching you, so perfect in your angelic repose, as i held your shaking frame last night, knotted my hands around your stomach, protected you long as i could from all the hurt and danger of the world.
im gonna map out your body like a cartographer and his maps, memorize ever square centimeter of your skin with my fingertips. i want to know all about you. everything about you is beautiful: the pained scars and the little smiles and your pebbled spine and the taut acre between collarbones and sex.
P.S.: heres a secret: i didnt wanna stop holding you last night.