the buttons on her sweater have never been more ripped

and the room carried on with that familiar shame, tear-filled scent.

those were the days of her life;

coming home from school, and finding him waiting

the rush and the fear,

anxiousness and now its fading

the only moments that allowed her to once feel love

now dashed into ramparts once dreamed of.

if the walls could speak then they would scream

‘shes just a **** with torn clothing and a broken spirit!’

even when it hurt,

even when he told her exactly what to feel.

his kisses tasted like futures lost and forgotten.

he was sweet but underneath his eyelids trouble lied;

this we had in common.

though, for those brief moments that he held me, in his arms, we were at ease;

we understood.

i will always remember his strong hands dressed in ardent whispers,

expressing more than painted need. yes, they settled arguments

and feigned complaints with their candy covered callouses

and sent shivers to the center of undiscovered parts of my being.

he was warm, burning, because i surrendered my heat.

he took it, palmed it, and expelled my inner demons with a flick of his wrist

and aching fingers.

soft were the minutes that ticked by

only noticeable by the subtle change of light

glistening off of your skin.

and the seconds that inched forward while

my hands devoured all of you in sight.

you sighed softly, at first, when my lips met your

shoulders, became acquainted with your neck, and my arms

****** the desire out of your pores.

while your mouth took mine; like a honey dipped burglar

stealing doubt from my lungs, i couldnt help but taste and think,

“soft.”

You are my enemy

twisting and turning

In the dark blue parts of me.

making me say things, most

sacred, with time slipping

away and causing dread

in its lapsing place.

you grow through me;

more amazing with every

decisive inch. So sweet are

your dewy petals, blooming as

if tomorrow’s skies are

undoubtedly bright.

as if I had any other choice

when I first saw his storming soul

burn through his eyes.

he suffers from bouts of lust
something that can only be cured by real love.
his loneliness expands past his hands
to touch no one but me.
he always says he's happy
but his goosebumps tell a different story
in a language i studied fully, dot by sensuous dot.
there is more to him, to us, than meets the eye
its powerful and deeply satisfying.
but,  i have to let him live his sullied peach toned lie.

he aches to rove about.
his soul is restless, yet he plays content.
he yearns for so much more,
though he attempts to stay caged.
the lonely lion paws desperately, trying
to make an honest connection,
taking leaps to the edges of unknown worlds.
just to feel again.
hoping to fall, fly, crawl or die
and always counting on an
earnest resurrection.

There is something about the way we move,

as if we've been here before,

as if nothing is the matter,

as if there could be more.

but then,

there is the truth; that we are broken and harmful,

willing to burst for a single armful

of what should be bliss

if we would, for a second, forget all of this.