reveling in this feeling—
the butterflies unfurling
touches of light wings
against the heart
fluttering that overlaps,
an intricate gossamer veil,
too vulnerable, lovely
in its meaning
“You’re a canvas.”
“If I’m a canvas, does that mean you’re going to make art on me? Am I going to be your masterpiece?”
“I’d very much like to make art on you. And with you. And in you.”
You talk to me in ways that heat me up. Feelings that make me look away when you stare into my eyes; a gaze that says this could be a thousand times more than what it is.
When you experience one end of the spectrum, logically, you must know that the other end of the spectrum exists. Just as how you can attain something you want, you can also lose it.
one day you meet someone
you didn't expect to meet
and everything you thought
you knew goes out the window
the logic no longer makes sense
the only things that make sense
is the sound of both of your hearts
beating and the smiles etched in
your eyes and the way little fizzy
sparks heat up inside your gut
like you're about to go skydiving
or bungee jumping, thrill-seeking
like this feeling is an indescribable
black hole that is swallowing up
your heart, your core, your being
where I’ve been
and where I want to be
the skeleton of our love lies
a moment passed. an emotion felt. photographs aren’t memories. memories aren’t experiences. angels aren’t humans. and she is not an angel.
she is young. but she has lived. through more. than me.
we are travelling. up north. in an old white van. my eyes are closed. her head is slanted. resting on me. she whispers. she sings. that song to me. the old church song. about salvation.
she is thinking. about something. I am feeling. her thoughts. and maybe. for a moment. we are one.