I could write about all of the things that make you wonderful,
or all of the things that don't,
but either way you'd be getting what you want.
I could write about your eyes,
and how they make my bones vibrate.
The way that they morph into hollow chestnut soldiers who have accepted their dreadful fate,
Or the way they surrender to your smile prompting fire to question it's purpose.
I could write about your lips,
and how they're the strongest magnets I know.
The way they ******* my elbows and make my fingertips tingle,
Or the fact that they taste like my favorite flavor of euphoria.
But I'm sure you've heard it all before,
So instead,
I will write what I feel.
Because your eyes are yours,
and your lips are yours,
but my feelings belong to me.
You know that feeling in your lungs when you've just run a thousand miles,
that pain in your head after you've cried a thousand tears,
you are that feeling, you are that pain.
I used to be a granite countertop,
shiny and cold,
as still as a living stone could be.
My eyes were a place for people's empty glasses,
nothing more,
and my smile was a painting made from the grease of half eaten pizzas.
At first, you managed to make gravity give up on me,
the granite shattered and I became something else,
hovering above success and failure,
elation and pain.
Unable to touch down because none of the above sounded okay.
Afraid of the good as well as the bad,
no laughs and no tears,
no daydreaming about future love affairs,
just an observer,
a hot air balloon.
Then you touched me,
And it burned like a cult of dragons,
Breathing fire down my spine.
Your hands turned my skin into sparkling water,
Bubbling and fizzing,
Unsettled razzle dazzle.
Each time our lips touch,
I taste a bitter happiness,
Sour, spicy, sweet,
Pixie dust and dragonflies.
Time has lost it's steady pace.
I am a slave to your existence,
Like the way that jellyfish move, without control or purpose,
or the way the sand can't run away from the sea.
Somehow you've managed to pump wonder into my lungs,
and fill my head with weeping willows.
the dancer in my beating heart, found her rhythm in yours.
Some nights, after you've fallen asleep,
I imagine myself sleeping atop your eyelashes,
cuddling with constant contradicting comparisons,
snuggling with smug smiling faces,
spooning the speckled souls who speak without thinking,
tangled in your secret stash of picturesque ideals.
I wish we could jump in a death cab,
and go somewhere brand new,
because baby, I could stare at those bright eyes for all of eternity.