I drank your thoughts,
and created your masterpieces,
hoping the love of yours will transfer to
mine.
They feel like water on a sunday,
the blush of a teenagers cheeks,
and the heat of the fire on my legs.
Mine feel like anxiety and stress,
the ones I find under my bed.
Hidden from view.
Obscuring me from you.
I need yours to make mine feel lighter.
Tell me them once more, and intertwine
with me.
Just, intertwine.