I know that you're a writer.
One day you're going to tell our story.

It's going to be the greatest love story the world has ever known.
Or the greatest, most tragic tale of loss.

Which way the pendulum swings is up to you.

Rest assured that you are wanted.
At any given time and place.

Rest assured that yours is the only face that can soothe my soul.
Even if it is sick or sad or flawless and perfect.

Beauty is not a static state of seeing.
But more a fluid feeling that stays constant.

So, whatever you are is is exactly what I desire.
Whatever you look like is exactly what I want, need, long to see.

Always.

Loving you is making me crazy.
Some days all I have is a head full of maybe.
Unconditional fits in my mouth like your hand does in mine.
Alone, my hands search through your puzzles trying to find peace of mind.

If a book can make you fall. In love with people who don't exist,

Why can't I when I love you as you wish?

I've been pulling at my seams lately,
trying to pick up stitches god dropped.

I tied a golden thread around my tounge,
and stiched poems of innocence.

I had hoped to mend our broken parts,
oversew our rough edges together till were complete.

But, you said my confessions made you itchy.
I'm nothing you want, and what you want I'll never be.

I have dark secrets stashed in my heart.
Not idle gossip or an unknown fact.
This secret feels more like a ball and chain.
This freedom you have given feels like a prison.

I heard that pain nourishes courage.
And that romanticised love is cancer.

I hope that this suffocating, consuming  love will devour enough of me.

Will make me sick enough to find the courage. The cure I need.

To fall out of love with you...