I wanna write about you.
And I do.
You drip off the end of my pen,
Off the blinking line of my cursor,
And fill up white space
With the nebulousness of what you are to me;
Your cumulonimbus formlessness.
Enter.
Pause.
A moment of consideration.
I am constantly unsure of what this all means.
I love you.
You’re bad for me.
I might be bad for you in return.
I want you.
I don’t want anything and I burn for you,
I write for you,
I pine when I am a creature of pragmatism and action.
You don’t want me the same in return, if you do at all.
The absence of you is terrifying.
The absence of you was a relief.
With you I am elated.
With you I feel as though you slowly pull my heart apart,
As though you forcefeed me hope,
For I am unable to do anything else but wish for—
Change
—when we are together,
Though I know it is impossible,
Unlikely enough to deserve the word.
I can see the planes of your skin, feel
Them beneath my fingers
I can trace their lines with my mind’s
Tongue.
Wishing is pointless with you.
I know this and still cry for the moon.

Yes, I love you.
It is tentative and new, sea foam lingering on the shore, waiting to be washed away.
So what?

I know you.
Sometimes you say things, expecting that I won’t understand, and I think it’s strange because
I know you.
That’s what this is. I know you,
And I want you,
And I care about you
Anyway.
I want no one else.
You might not know me,
The stanchions you use to prop yourself up eating all that I have fed you,
In the darkness,
In the night,
But I know you.
And I want you anyway.

I write you, because the absence of you is still somehow shaped like your presence.

I write you because you overwhelm, overwhelmed my defences and now that my house is underwater there is only air that is not you in the top corner of the attic.

I drift along on the current of you I’ve created, fallen prey to, and wonder if it will ever end.

Or lessen. Abate.

I could let the air leave my lungs and sink down into you as long as I knew that in the water you were wrapped back around me as I was wrapping myself around you.

I drown in your tide and pray that your fire begins to burn less brightly, no longer a flashover combustion but something that lingers long and warm and comforting.

Instead I will macerate away, fasting on air-fulls of you I am convinced are whole meals, and you will fall victim to my incendiary blaze as I go out in nothing akin to glory, and we’ll both stand on opposite sides of a road as we bleed and stare back at each other.

This will only hurt, but the swell of you I sail forth on, carrying in my veins with every waterlogged step, means I can’t stop.

I don’t want to.