I can’t sleep. Sometimes I write when this happens. It used to be from myself to my own sheets of paper, but that has gone wrong too. My mind can only write about you now, I can’t think about something else than yourself.

The paper has become your legs. The words come right out from your red, perfect lips. Sentences build up right from your hips.

Things are never written down as they should, it’s pretty much alike when I try to say “I love you” with my tongue all over your body.

Your eyes remind me that no matter how much or what I write it’s never going to be enough to describe the kind of feelings, the kind of images you bring. I have to write. I feel like I’m not good at it anymore. You, my notebook, you have overwhelmed my capacity of expression.

Not even this words are coming out as they should, right now while I type nonsensly, I think, I wonder, is he ever going to read this how I want him to?


I feel cold every colon, every period. They indicate it’s been long since I died when you kissed me.