let me tell you about poetry
let me tell you about how the sunlight hits his eyes and his pupils dilate just enough for me to see my reflection lost in the pool of a mind full of everything but chlorine
let me tell you about the way his words electrify his touch so at one point i'm convinced i'm being struck by lightning, ready and waiting for the storm to come shortly after
let me tell you about how he likes his coffee black and about how he never seemed to learn the word bad, about how he in the most exposing hours of the night strips down to the bare minimum - his soul, about how he loses his thoughts and reverts back to old questions, about how he keeps practicing the art of deception over and over again just to prove to himself he's still got it
let me tell you about how he wears himself on his sleeve and about how i know that in the gaps between when we feel our heart beats in our throats and through our veins, we will never work out, about how he sees shades of blue but i see shades of pale, about how he's an open book but i was taught books are better kept closed, about how he's becoming my muse but the minute i start writing about them that signifies it's surely the end
let me tell you about mourning before it's begun and about the dark nights spent staying up examining self worth in a queen-sized bed with cigarette butts lining the window sills, about the beautiful agony created and the torturous goodbyes
let me tell you about standing on the edge of a cliff with only two options in front of you and having to ask yourself if it's worth the fall, about how you're so scared of being pushed no matter the promises, but how you know that no matter the spears beneath, his face is all you'd see every single moment your body was falling towards the earth, one step closer to oxygen and closer to death