What's the point of touching you, of being this close to you if there's someone else's name woven in your soul,etched on your skin?
I could spend eternities tracing figures on your body,
Familiarize myself with every kink,every curve, every uncharted territory,
With the steady hum of your heart against my palm,
With the way you cage me in your arms but all these would be nothing but futile
For I'll never find shelter inside your skin—somebody else's home I'm trying to fill in.

I could spend all night,memorizing you by heart like the back of my hand
But yours would still feel limp in my grasp,longing for another's touch to lead you back where you'll truly feel alive.
I could break you down line by line as if you're my favorite rhyme
Yet you'll never fit in right in these writings of mine—you belong in someone else's art.

There is nothing comforting in these nights we share,when you'll always be on the look out for another in the crowd as I search your face,trying to find any trace of affection granted as mine.
The rain can't wash you out of my system if you always pull me back down, hold me close under these sheets of ice,keeping me from the downpour outside.
To tell you the truth,I'd rather be there than be searching for warmth in the coldness of your presence.
I'd rather run towards the uncertainty of the night than stay with you under these blinding lights,where with every word I speak,I come closer to my inevitable demise.
Leaving offers more sanctuary for here there is nothing—absolutely nothing for me.
-W.