The way your eyes
undress me and
strip me of my imperfections.
How your fingertips
glide along my skin,
snake like and familiar
with its terrain.
The gentle flutter of your
breath upon my ear lobe,
sweet nothings pouring onto
the ear drum.
And when you embrace me,
you support my head
like you would and infant's,
refusing to let me go until
Then your lips call
for the tender touch of mine.
A simple exclamation
of my undying
When I look into his eyes,
he doesn't seem real.
I feel his hair
in my fingers,
the touch of his hand on my
his breath on my ear
as he whispers sweet nothings to me.
But it's as if I'm living in a movie,
a story line that's only there to make others envious.
It's all dream, though.
It has to be a dream.
I ask myself everyday,
How can something this good be happening to me?
Of all people.
What did I do to deserve him?
I know the mind is a powerful thing,
but I doubt mine could create such
He's real, though.
He's so real.
He's the most real thing I've ever experienced.
And I love him.
I'm sorry that I got saltwater all over your shoulder
and that I clung to you like I was a
jungle animal and you were a tree.
I can't help it if my mascara isn't waterproof
and sticks to my face
making me look
like a raccoon.
And even though my eyes turn a stunning shade of sea-foam,
I hate this.
I hate that I can't breathe.
It's like my chest collapses like a stubborn child,
and the only way it comes back up
is if you feed it all the pain and sorrow you so
willingly vomited out in the first place.
I hate how my face gets all red and wet
and no matter how hard I try,
I won't dry off.
Looking like a raccoon isn't half bad,
but looking like the
reflection of the state your heart is in
is a different story.
I hate that my eyes burn and my face feels
raw from all of the attempts to dry it off.
I hate that when someone asks me, "Are you okay?"
my eyes decide to flood like a broken dam
pouring over innocent living things.
I envy them because at least they are alive.
While I'm just sitting here
moping over what everyone else thinks is nothing.
Well, my nothing is something.
And that something means more to me
than anything that they could ever dream to have.
And I'm sorry I look this way.
I'm even sorry that I feel this way.
But I will never be sorry that what I have has meaning
because that's all I need.
And that's all I've ever needed.
Because I am alright.
— The End —