Oh, you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet and hold the earth in place.

imagine for one second a car on a highway.
there are no other cars, and the road runs straight as far as you can see.
so its not like we need a map.
infact, the car is driving itself, there is no one behind the wheel.
im in the back seat with you, and the scenery is black, but not like the night.
more like the evening, in a bedroom in someones house, in winter.
more like the tent of the covers, where the only light is from the reflection of your eyes in mine, and the glow of your skin.
no, we are not like angels. or devils.
we are not like anything.
~
i get painfully honest, like a cancer patient.
i guess its just what you do to me.
i could say that all that love (the real kind) got me was an accumulation of notebooks and favourite songs. I could say that lust got me where i wanted to be.
bewtween your legs.
I cant tell wether it is better breathing you like a prayer, like a sonnet and clumsy scribbled sentences like im more alive than ever before
and reading too far into your profile songs but there is meaning in every action you unconciously decide,
or fire licking my heels my tongue everywhere but your mouth melting you like a sugar cube.
~
I know i have always prefered to be crushed against a wall than bought flowers for.
love is about lust. and this is the opposite of chaste.
~
and whatever you say, this is real. I dont care that i am the anti.
because this is obviously real.
you make me feel so incredibly alive.