Let me touch your face, follow the outlines of wrinkles still yet to form.
I’ll trace my name over your heart so when death reaches us, we won’t be apart.
Let me whisper a thousand love stories in your ear
that would outrage our grandparents.
I’ll memorise your body like the favourite book you are to me,
so exciting, thrilling, tempting.
The best kind.
Oh, my love,
if ever you feel like stars do not quite
shine bright enough,
or the sea is too deep for you,
or you are suffocating in
the silence around you,
For I will risk all I have
to rescue you.
I will paint the moon into the sky,
just to see her reflected in your eyes.
I will help you swim, and I will
keep you afloat even when you tire.
Oh, my love,
Every day that I spend loving you
I desperately want to take back,
just so I could love you a little longer.
Silence deafens me,
but at the same time,
all I can hear is your voice.
You’re everywhere and nowhere
with intense destructive capabilities.
I cannot escape you,
nor do I wish to.
The setting sun,
the shining stars;
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A hand on my back,
A stroke of the neck,
A love affair between predator and prey.
When I think of him, the first thing that comes to mind is the intoxicating sensation of being high. High on life, on love, on him. His lips are something I crave at 8am and at 11.30pm. His touch is something I miss the most in the sun-dazzled haze of a lazy summer’s afternoon. The soft caress of seduction brushing across my lips over and over again, a hand tracing its fingertips up my leg, a smile through the kiss. When I think of his eyes, I think of a soft summer sunset married with hues of honey. I’m subconsciously aware that I might drown in the ocean of his being, yet I’ll readily dive into the deep despite not quite knowing how to swim. During the day, I want to rip my heart into shreds and watch the little pieces float around me as I look on in despair; at night, I want to put all of those pieces back together, taking no notice of the blood on my hands and the stains on the hem of my skirt. The sweet, dulcet tones of our incessant need for closeness fill the air when he nears me.
This is what I think of when I think of him.
The ocean finally calmed and you came out with scars coughing up memories. The branches you clung to while you were being tossed through oblivion had thorns, leaving gashes in your hands while you clung for life, scared to go too far under. And blood and water caressed your lips, like the taste of his kisses when they came from a mouth that shot bullets disguised as words. But you survived. You survived the hands pulling you under and the currents pulling you every which way.