Itching for you may be the worst. Lying behind you, an arm draped over your hips, lips pressing against your poorly shaved neck. You cut corners, especially me, until late at night when missing me seems ok and maybe more, just right. You have a way of making my logic inexplicable. You’ve made me beyond me. you make my dreams so strange, I don’t understand this work of yours. I don’t understand these words, strangely not yours but somehow…. In fact I miss them, even the ones I can’t define. Leaving you is epic, every fucking time. I just wish you knew what I’ve given or would give to simply love all of you, every moment, every pore, every word, every sigh, mine…but I think maybe you do know and I think maybe it’s a bit too much.

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