all i ever do is ache. there are places where the color in my cheek blotches and it is in those spots that resides a quiet desperate yearning for the touch of your lips--

tears leave just as many wayward streaks as dripping paint on canvas, only i'm not art.

how can I miss the hands that I never even got to hold?
i'm pretty sure palm readers know more intimacies than any soul on earth. i have yet to discern a single line of yours. or our lines. where do we begin? lines are infinite but existence is but a piece. does that make our love a line fragment? or are we more substantial than that?

how do i miss old places that i've never been to? i can't remember if color value was the same as valuing us. One can only make shapes when there is light and shadow but i'm not sure how to shade us from impending erasure on this page. how can i reminisce about the touch of your skin when all I got was a brief glance off your arm? i swear it made a mark on me but i never once could find it. my bruises still linger though. darling, is it possible to love without letting go?

these are the things that consume me.