I wanted to write a poem
for you but instead it came out in some sort of prose. Because this Love cannot be held by the words I want to give to it or by line breaks that may
or may not
mean something.
Because it is your glass half full and mine is filled to the brim and they are never empty always changing and moving and then it’s yours spilling over and mine pouring into it and oh god is it that time again I’ll fuck you anyway and I am coming in your mouth and all over the sheets our bodies a love letter to the world exploding into these dimensions, but born long before the world could see.
And we are screaming and shrieking with laughter and rushes of
adrenaline and anger and running your hands through my hair and down my back into the places your fingers know like home
this Love is shattering windows somewhere. And then picking up the pieces to make something beautiful from the stain on your shirt and the cut on my finger the soft touch of a stranger and you are here.
We are finding flowers in a field somewhere on the Road between my hometown and yours. And I’m thinking that maybe
after all this
Love is the one to write home about. Like Samson and Delilah I won’t mind if you cut my hair but save it to show our daughters where they came from and what it means to find
this Love.
me + you
dare you
(Source: little-blackbook, via everythingisantiquated)
