she is my little i miss you

thought about kissing you and missed half the conversation

some nights i leave myself a little open nothing comes but the air

a little rain a little music your legs across mine

if you knew how often i think of you in the middle of entirely unrelated things you might begin to understand why i sometimes go quiet when you are near it is not that i have nothing to say but that your presence makes all the things i have imagined telling you feel strangely inadequate i have rehearsed a hundred conversations with the idea of you only to discover that the real you standing before me is enough to make language forget what it came for

that womaN is so much more than just special

still wearing your goodnight kiss

the freckles i kiss first

i dont know what to call this small weather of wanting you near

you said my name and i stopped being so many places

i say your name into the night the night repeats it through the rain the rain runs softly down the glass the glass reflects your face again i turn to find you fast asleep and whisper what the night can’t keep

still unfinished around you

there is something about you that makes wanting feel strangely endless i can hold you and still wish to be closer i can kiss you and already miss the moment before your lips touched mine i can spend an entire evening listening to your voice and feel disappointed when the night finally asks us to sleep it is not that you leave me unsatisfied but that every tenderness reveals another tenderness i had not known to desire as though loving you were a language in which every answer becomes a more beautiful question

so sad today

i hate my social anxiety

somewhere beyond

if heaven exists i hope it has a kitchen and a sleepy you asking me where we keep the honey

forgive me for the way i look at you when the sunlight finds your throat for wanting to interrupt your most serious thoughts with my mouth for finding the smallest excuses to stand within reach of your hands i have tried to be sensible about beauty to admire it without disturbing it but then you smile and all my carefully cultivated restraint goes to hell i think if desire is a sin it is a very strange one to be punished for wanting to be gentle with something so beautiful