Our worth is granted to us
By the sum of our lovers,
By how many times we have craved
Or been craved,
By how much our skin longs
For another’s touch.

We are taught to withhold,
And to not take for granted
The immense altruism of company.
Where do we belong
If not in the arms of another?

How dare we for a minute
Accept our own love as enough.
How dare we seek comfort
In our own searching minds.
How dare we think of ourselves as anything other
Than a half in search of the whole.

With every touch you turn more and more of me into treasured gold

How do I feel now?
Now that you are gone?
Not gone from my life
But only at the end of a phone?

A few words written
A few at a time
A few days at a time

I can't touch you
I can't taste you
I can't kiss you

I love to do all these things
I know you love them too

I long to hold you
To stroke your face
Kiss your neck

Feel your body next to mine
Feel your warmth inside me
Filling me with joy

That I can't explain
Its for us to share
But I want to share this forever

Do you feel the same?

There is a thing that makes someone that we love and rose become our favorite things.
They both,
Beautiful yet lovely
Fragrant yet addicting

And,
They are also painful

Like Rose which has torn and bleed our arm when we touch it

Or,

Like someone that we love who promise us something, but only words which gone hopeless until we upset with tears.

Then,
It always ended up to loving and wanting them back, over and over. Even though we knew how it felt being hurt.

A naked tree in winter
my bones are always bare
I reach inside this
tree crown ribcage
pull my insides out
and press them on this page
I make a lovely composition
of red and superstition
I don't care
about how ***** it gets
I dare
you
Let me share
with you
You can do no wrong
Watch me
as I pretend it's been you
who touched these pages
all along

our hands touched for a split second
but it’s all I’ve been able to think about for days

My heart rest at ease
with the thought of her;
the keeper of my love,
solace of my soul
her absence, an arrow,
but her written words,
a force that is real,
more real than presence
itself.

When her light flickers,
my heart jumps with desire,
and when our eyes meet,
overflowed my soul pours
into a river across my cheeks
for her beauty urges touch,
and of touch
I am deprived and sentenced
to despair.