To revel in your presence,
a euphoric feeling...
But i'm afraid I'd smear it with
my stained hands of pessimism.
Still, there you are,
wiping them with yours
without touching
yet—
because you believe I was still
too frail.

Silence—

And we both see the pleasant sun
while we were in different
places,
and you know that last night
I curled up on my bed
with the weight of the moon
on my stomach.
So you told me you'll see me the next day
by the sun's gradual decline,
before the moon arrives
again.

Then week after week,
after week, and days, and weeks,
we'd talk in language
so cynical,
telling just how much
we want to be alone rather than
hurt and love.
And oh, the irony
of remembering rotting wounds
to forget
by putting them in your 20s jar and promising
that it'll be a reward,
and opening closed doors
just for me to close them again.

...until we don't want to be alone anymore.
Deciding that maybe, it isn't so bad
to not let a year pass
before risking
the frailty of each other's hearts
in each other's hands;
to wake up to our bodies
clinching
after enduring ****** sunsets and heavy nights.