I want to roll over in the night and feel your enchanting presence.
You're intoxicating.
I want to feel your arm flop over my torso in the night, and hear your sleepy whimpers.
Being with you makes me weak in the loveliest of ways.
Why, I could lie awake and listen as you breathe, watch your lungs as they tactfully rise up and down, for hours.
You, my dear, are mesmeric. Trance-enduring, and ever so magnificent.
You're the exact thing i've been fantasising about. You're the escape I need to keep myself sane in the audacity that's more commonly known as reality.

You're my one and only.

Put you close to my heart
and tell you that you are
so ******* beautiful.
I want so badly
to kiss every inch
of your battle weary skin,
whispering sweet nothings
about how terrifyingly beautiful the jagged,
taunting lines are.

But I cannot bear to encourage this war.

You are beautiful because
you saw ugliness
and you saw pain,
yet your faith in the world,
or God, or humans,
or something,
made you stay and witness more
despite your own suffocating darkness.

But I will not encourage this war.

The faceless, jeering voices inside -
they are not real.
They will not win.
They are bullies in a pre-school courtyard.
It's hard to walk away but
eventually you learn to tune them out.
Their unworldly presence is not beautiful
so they take over your mind to compensate.

End this war.

The casualties canceled out any victory
the moment blood was first spilt.