your slow, burning kisses live off my trembling skin, for this alone, i will run out of poetry. i will fall at your feet, graceless, and at will. and i know this is madness. this is a disaster. this is the calm — all rolled into quiet, prosaic longings i can't begin to comprehend. this love, it scares me but not enough to run for my life. and i will have every bit of this moment committed to memory. i will bury it inside my ribs, away from the selfish hands of time. i will keep this love in a vial, hidden away beneath my tongue. always — this is my kind of always, my love, and some parts of me will never outgrow being yours.
this is the kind of madness i know. this is the kind of disaster. this is the kind of calm.
in the dark, i whisper, "tell me, love, does it scare you? does it scare you enough to run?"