There will come a time where our inked words will eventually be etched across the doggy-eared, creased but never broken edges of our white hearts painted red.
It's the magic wisped within the silence of letters
that can truly make us a little more impervious.

A little bundle of warmth on cold, sleepless nights.

And you know, what is the best part, sweet-heart?
In the same way, the best part of sliced bread is the very middle,
warm duvet over your sleepy eyelids,
the kind of smile that "introduces you to yourself for the first time."
Or, the very fact, quotes peek-a-boo through my words. They live time after time. Through lips to another.
To one lovely soul and the next.

Those little breaths you take that feels like mint tooth-paste.

The best part is that those words are yours.
Every stroke, the deft indentations across the page,
oh, pages. (Yes, I do know you pen words at 2am then at 4 again.)

So many inexplicable things get snatched from our outstretched fingertips. Some willingly, some that we had to swallow silent good-byes.

It's ok-ay though.

These words, the ones dotting the back of your hand or the scribbles at the back of pages.
They all have your name etched & those creased memories tied like  dainty ribbons upon them.
It is entirely and utterly  
yours.
Yours in this starry universe.

He tasted like *** & winter berries.

Short, sweet & ****.

Words fell between the lips like spilt sugar.

It is far too sweet to be a wondrous kind of good.

Then, he kissed me.
And I still feel the syllables of
"I love you"
tickling the edges of my cupid's bow.

It is the oldest story we know.

They all lost their innocence.

Rib-cages became prisons,
the daisies plaited and knotted into hair wilted.

When everything became straight, dead lines, your heartbeat (the sound I call home) for example, I began to wonder.

I wonder about all the words you were going to say.

What other thoughts did and would you have had. Were they dyed a pretty hue, a blush of pink or inky blue?

Now, does your voice pretend not exist in your voicebox.

Because, your throw your back laughter is still in the wink of the smile, I will crinkle someday.
The dips and curves of your voice snuggle close against the ragged and rough edges of my mind.
It will do, it will have to do.
Beneath my closed eyelids, my heartbeat flutters and hiccups for, I still remember the night your lips lightly pressed on the the left rib of my ribcage.

As much as it is hard to admit, a sliver of my being lives for you.
And perhaps, that is the greatest love anyone could imagine.