9

Sometimes I think about how nice it would be to hold your hand. And have your soft palm pressed against mine. Like holding a sweet plum or peach.  
I think about talking and listening and laughing with you. I think about kissing you,  and hugging you,  and being so close that I can run my nose along the line of your neck and the tips of my fingers across your chest. 
How I would sprinkle brown sugar in your ears and smear honey across your eyes,  make things sweet things for you until your heart is saturated in syrup.
I think about where we could go  and what we could do. 
About you,  you I entrap in these thoughts. Flower petals soft, caressing, a scent tickling my nose, enough for me to ignore how cheap these petals actually feel. 
You you you I think about who lives in a decorated glass case,  so pristine and nestled quite comfortably in my mind, the glare from the spotlight not blinding enough for me to ignore that thick line between what is real and what is not. 
But I enjoy how the residue of that line made of black black tar sticks, and tears at my skin the burn reminding me that it’s only safe to be on the side of what’s real.
I heed and I ignore.  
Because to think that someone who seems as lovely as you could hold my heart in those soft palms
is too appealing. 

 

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