brisk. jagged. grainy. your words dance across my innocence. "im sorry," mumbled. whispered. poisoned. cynical are those words aiming to ****, forcing to struggle, eternally scarring. once, i believed you. thought it was real, and you actually cared; that's when your intentions became art. my body the canvas, your words the brush. my emotions the paint, your mind the audience.
in•fat•u•a•tion (ɪnˌfætʃ uˈeɪ ʃən) n. 1. the state of being infatuated; foolish or all-absorbing passion.
the first time I laid eyes on you, I knew you'd have an impact on me you'd hurt me so deeply, so shamelessly. so strongly and so breathlessly and I let myself drown in you and you only.
wandering hands; searching for the unknown, feeling for perfect emotion, wanting to never let go. electricity pulses through your veins, you know it's right, it's so wrong that it's *absolutely right.
people talk about wanting to drown for days, and days in one's eyes, so blue like an unpoluted ocean. I would rather walk for ages and explore, carefully, deeply, every inch of this forest, so deeply green that's the shade of yours.
words so mean a confused mind would speed itself on, and on, and on for days, lingering through a heartbeat so painfully, so strongly, beating through a thin, delicate chest, hurting angerly through all of your very own atmosphere.
we're an unfinished work of art. and it's curious how both of us use the word "unfinished" with sadness stained deep into our voices, rising from the belief that time ruined all of our plans, when it stands for something that never even had a start.