i'm still waiting for you ( Read more... )

oh, dear god.
if you're out there
( and i know you are )
and if you're reading this
( which you may well be )
come through my window
oh please
come through my window.

i've been too long without romance
or arms that want my frame.

( Read more... )

i will be your fire and brimstone ( Read more... )

__i keep adding notes to my hands that i refuse to forget. i cry at silly pictures and hate the cold in my toes. my touch is tainted with dark swirls and spirals, and my mouth spouts lies and half-truths and wishes that i want so much to be reality. i torture myself, watching the ashes fall from fingers that i've stained with my time in all your ( Read more... )

_i love the way your eyes make me feel. fresh, luxurious, like new silk borne of butterflies. like your lust begs you to grab me, but your manners offer your arm. our dainty frames surf sweat, all the worlds energies rising skyward and we ride it, this wave of nothing practical, with our fingers entwined; swinging into the rafters and running our ( Read more... )

It splits like old socks and warm milk, dividing into the worst parts. That's us. Two awful ingredients to something really good. When we are together, a net of arms and legs and lips, nothing can stop us. We're two forgotten superheroes. We're melody and harmony: gliding, rising, swooping like hawks; curling around eachother above the barren ( Read more... )

when you have the time, you'll find your way to my house and creep in my window. sometimes you crawl into bed with me, arms interlaced, and i'll wake up refreshed and smelling of you; you know how i adore that smell ( Read more... )

our story is a book you were too bored to read. or maybe, it's one you're slowly forgetting that you own, as it sits on your bookshelf next to Keats and Shelley and a picture book SHE drew for you the first time you went over and watched some stupid movie i've never heard of. there is construction paper and crayons and your name is written on the ( Read more... )

You’re forever fighting with numbers. To you, anything past 35 is imaginary. “If you let yourself age past 20, you’ll never learn to live like you’re 12” you explain to me over a cup of oily coffee in a poorly lit café. You hate carrying more then 23 dollars with you, and dread the day that your waistline exceeds 32 ( although no one would ever ( Read more... )