There are times where I want to dip my hand into the rippled parts of my thoughts  
And smear them onto white walls so you would be able to see the mangled images I have of you.
I am not able to sort you into categories like a librarian does with pastel colored spines on red-oak shelves.
No; you are the excuse “rules are meant to be broken.”
You are the contradictory between oil and water.
Coloring my perspective a different shade of grey like spilled contents of smoke engulfing the ocean that houses above skyscrapers
You said “One day I’ll come back, blistered hands and scraped knees.”

Like you, words are delicate but abrasive.
They leave trails of kisses along your torso, but also they have a rampaged hunger for rattling your ribcage.
They have the tendency to manipulate wallflowered minds such as my own.
Words will fill you up with sunlight, letting you have a mere taste of sheer ecstasy, but will take that away returning you to the hollow vessel you once were.
Words are like past lovers who keep coming back to tease.