he has hands like roses and tigers, and I can’t think of anything that could be better.
I don’t let a thing control me except for what I’m feeling, and sometimes it seems like there are pretty wings pricking in my stomach, but I think that’s only because of him.
stripping off black duct tape in a room full of once-empty walls, I lose my focus. something tells me that this is real,
this is more than I could have known before.
but he doesn’t know that I’d read him stories out of old picture books until he fell asleep,
that I’m horrible at chemistry and braiding hair,
that I would love to just once, share a box of Nerds or m&m;’s or sour straws, and laugh about how colorful our skin gets.