My reclamations lay in the corner: your old hoodie, a book, my memories resting upon the shelf of youth, collecting dust.
I paw at them as if this was a game, as if I'm waiting in the jungle until someone rolls a 5 or an eight.
As if jumangi was more than TV crews and cameras.
I drag my finger over the book, leather bound and gold laced pages.
I etch your name in the dust because it's sweeter than any childhood fantasy.
My pregnant mind bulges with a love that's more fierce than a thousand fire-breathing dragons.
I created a cottage out of pieces of our history, hidden memories lurk like dwarves.
I wrap myself inside your clothes, fragrance like poisoned Apple's, I breath you in.
I could dream of you for eternity as I accept my "sleeping death".
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
My reclamations lay in the corner: your old hoodie, a book, my memories resting upon the shelf of youth, collecting dust.
I paw at them as if this was a game, as if I'm waiting in the jungle until someone rolls a 5 or an eight.
As if jumangi was more than TV crews and cameras.
I drag my finger over the book, leather bound and gold laced pages.
I etch your name in the dust because it's sweeter than any childhood fantasy.
My pregnant mind bulges with a love that's more fierce than a thousand fire-breathing dragons.
I created a cottage out of pieces of our history, hidden memories lurk like dwarves.
I wrap myself inside your clothes, fragrance like poisoned Apple's, I breath you in.
I could dream of you for eternity as I accept my "sleeping death".
