What I feel for you is akin to how the floorboards hug the wall at the corner of the ballroom.
Smothered in gleaming tile, I lie beneath, fighting to breathe at the very seams, so close to you.
I am worn, and old, and my nails are ripped to shreds as I claw my way through the throng of porcelain pink people to you.
The touch of me against the very smallest part of you is enough for me to fall still and gaze not at the dancers in their gowns but the unassuming dark corner towards which I endlessly reach.