When I look at you, I feel like I am dying. Not the bad kind of dying, but the kind of dying where my lungs forget how to function and the oxygen can't seem to find its' way in.
The kind of dying where every hair on my body stands straight up, the muscles contracting like an icy wind just crept up my spine- frigid and tempting.
My eyes can't seem to break their gaze from you, like one of those cheesey scenes from a romance movie where they zoom in slowly on the person's face- locked on fixation.
My heart-rate slows, making it feel like there's no blood left in my body to pump, movements as slow as an IV drip full of Morphine.
Like my veins closed up and are rejecting circulation- just as i am rejecting focus on anything but you.
I can feel a warmth creep through me, like venom seeping into my blood after a deadly bite from a pit viper- just the perfect temperature to hatch the thousands of cocoons resting in my stomach lining.
I go to open my mouth, to speak to you, to converse about silly things like why the moon and sun never seem to meet, or why human toes are so odd- but all that seems to break its' way out of my body are butterflies of the most potent vibrancy, colors that don't even have names.
Colors so vivid and enchanting that only fairytales and daydreams could house them, conjure them up with spells of the highest power.
Your eyes catch me staring and I go weak in the knees- my body unable to decide whether it'd rather collapse to the ground in a motionless pile, sinking into the soil to become the undergrowth that feeds fungi and small flowers, or to kick itself into hyper-drive, frolicking about like a newborn fawn feeling sun on its back during its' first Spring.
Yet all it seems my mind can really fathom is the craving for you, like an intense sense of fiending for nicotine crawling through my flesh.
An addiction I couldn't stop, even if I wanted to. Since I will never stop wanting you.

Maybe I'm stupid, she says.
Maybe the glass in my lungs is just decoration, the knife in my heart is just an abbreviation.
An abbreviation for the sharp suffering that feels so inadequate.
Maybe it's simpler to put it like that?
Simpler to not speak, simpler to not breathe, simpler to pretend that I'm not crumbling and weak.
Maybe I'm a burden, she says.
Maybe my voice reminded you of barbed wire, maybe I was desired when I was full of fire.
A fire so vast, so burning, so bright- why would you ever want to leave on the lights?
It still burns for you, and I keep choking on ash.
I still feel all the ways in which you loved me last.
It's undying, at least something is. If I said it was me, I'd be telling a fib.

Baa Baa Black Sheep, have you any wool?
Or did you fall in love with someone, only to lose your soul?

Dainty snowflakes dance down from the sky, a concoction of whimsy and nostalgia.
I see your face in the flurry, the nippy chill numbing my senses and bringing me back to the days we first met.
I remember the first day I kissed you, our lips ridden with nicotine and nervousness.
It took about two weeks for me to muster up the courage to kiss you, for our mouths to speak to eachother, without words.
The sensation of flesh against flesh, wrapped in eachother, and the fireworks I felt in that moment remind me of the windchill, sending shivers down my spine, igniting goosebumps as though you had pushed down on a TNT trigger, hidden inside of me.
I remember how I had pulled away from our embrace, hid my face in the folds of your flannel out of fear of being rejected- giggling and apologizing for the sloppiness of my love.
You wrapped me up in your arms, quieting my apologies, warmth radiating off of you like a space heater- a warmth I knew I could never resist ever again from that moment on.
Because of you, I've learned to love winter, almost as much as I love you.