I'm going in there,

the box is locked, but I've been feigning,
shouldering off opportunities,
tormenting
how you lie, how;
you
are too ****
      good,
      too **** sweet,
      for me.

still,
take me with you, please.

how do you manage to,
or, how do I delude myself as,
to get to the matter at hand:
i want
every
last brushstroke
of your co-ordinate skin
surface patch union
in a quilt of
frail, tendre, beauteous,
branching, distant
expansions.
but you're here,
            no mind.

ok, so:

you're a forest fire in my
eyes when
I simply glaze through
your
al-
a-
ba-ster domain,

where your heart sits,
still,
contorted,
left, chinese-puzzled, by a boy you, still,
could never hate.

{nobody ever hates anyway, truly} maybe.
{nobody ever loves anyway, truly} I guess I have proof, otherwise.

And I, well,
I could never not love everything.
Whatever it is, makes up you.