Fingers like scraped nails bore into my skin,
and while in a breathless attempt to rebut,
I found myself diving into a helpless hole
of madness that revolved around your touch.

While it burned and scraped for the futures promises,
the sweet sizzle and scratching left me craving more,
and I've never really liked long hugs and find myself
attracted to long stares,
because the intensity revolves like a tornado,
and the world is paused,
and Christ you have the most beautiful eyes I have yet to see.

I hate getting sappy, but
I'd love to be your tree.
But with no grounded roots,
and wicked wrangly branches
the stability is unknowingly nowhere to be found.

Sadness is worst than cancer,
for it metastasizes more rapidly than anything
imaginable,
so we must be in Wonderland,
where forever may be simply a second
and each forever fills you up more and more
with the cancer that threatens the life of every burden,
or mistake,
or habit, or anything that in the end is bad for you.

But stand as you are, for comparing you to something is rather
disrespectful
for beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
and I'd rather be blind than not see you once more.

You are my metaphor and my easiest comparison to abstraction.