It's been 4 days. 4 ******* days and the concrete widowed walls have sewn his name into their ancient seams when they haven't even felt his grip yet. The dripping white paint crawled upon the bed sheets and into the pillows faded where I have no choice but to lay my skull at night. My feet seek beneath the heavy atmosphere as the covers crawl up my spine and above my neck caressing me as 5 letters slither between the gap in my thighs and the spaces between where my hip and the sheets meet. And his perfection has taken me to a scary dimension, where bedrooms become lust and the thought of him is falling into a sunken love as deep as an anchored ship that has just hit a storm, never been seen with any human eyes, any human soul. Where stomachs drop, and breathing is only a part of life that you distantly once knew.