I've never written of love, because until now, I've never been engulfed in its transcendence.
Enamored by the faint breath of a sleeping beauty.
Being assured without assurance.
Fire in the chest, and Ice on the toes.
Completely immobile, only jetting endlessly in the right direction.
Can this,
be real?
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 11:01 PM UTC
I've never written of love, because until now, I've never been engulfed in its transcendence.
Enamored by the faint breath of a sleeping beauty.
Being assured without assurance.
Fire in the chest, and Ice on the toes.
Completely immobile, only jetting endlessly in the right direction.
Can this,
be real?
