When he isn't here I'm tingling with thoughts of his hands
and arms and eyelashes. The faint blonde feathery
hair on his eyebrows. Pucker lines in his lips.
He tells me -monotone- I love you. I love you too.
My heart swells. It doesn't matter what is true.
If my heart is in my throat it doesn't matter.
Who thinks of love like this? It's always so full
of pain so full of hurt. Want lust loss. But
who thinks of love like this. Furfilled - heart
beating - arms intertwining in a heaven soft
bed. Who writes love stories? I'm expecting
Pain.






(Just out of my notebook. Doodlings. I might make the skeleton prettier later.)

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