My physics teacher told me;
we never quite touch.
The electrons don’t allow it,
or something of the such.

It would be fun to say a sentence,
idealistic,
enigmatic,
cliché,
and trite.
Perhaps a little something such:

“You touched my heart, you gave it a chill.”

But
you
never
did.

And
you
never
will.

I must be allergic to awesome, because you're making my throat close up.

Seriously. I can't breathe.
So go find me a doctor and *******.

Her body is her journal,
Her body is her life,
Her body is her monument to misery and strife.

She writes about the memories,
She writes about the pain,
She writes about the loneliness and tears that fall like rain.

Her ink holds all the secrets,
Her ink holds all the lies,
Her ink holds all the truth she knows when all that she loves dies.