I want to make love. Be sensual. Kiss. Be held. Hugged. Touched. Smoke. Drink. Eat. I want to pass by strangers I'll never see again. Look into eyes that get me. Understand my darkness. Understand my soul. I want to close my eyes. And in that little moment, feel happiness. I'll try to hold onto it until it escapes. I'll grasp it so tight. I want to be wanted. Safe. Comfort. Home. Comfortable silence. Steal glances. Maybe a touch. And if we kiss, I'll hold on to it. I'll embrace it. I'll let every cell of my being and fiber soak it in like a sponge. And I'll kiss him back. Grab him. Pull him close. Because he has successfully penetrated my mind. He carries an immense sadness and so do I. We aren't forever and most likely won't be. If we make love, I'll look at him, like I've never looked at anyone before. I'll kiss his neck. Touch him everywhere. I'll make him believe this is the first time. Because I want to. I won't fake it. When I see him for the first time, I'll hug him so tight. I'm ready universe. I'm ready to get hurt again. I'm scared. I'm vulnerable. I feel sick. It's an all too familiar feeling that I felt months ago. But that's romance right? You keep trying in hopes the next time is different.