2 soleil

   as i'm undressing my mind, i think about kissing your shoulders, and i think about it a lot. well, shame on me for indirectly pressing my lips against your heart, as it almost feels like kissing the night air.

   and i know... before kissing my body, you wouldn't want to kiss my brain, because my thoughts couldn't fit with yours at some point. i acknowledged that truthfully.

   i still think about kissing your shoulders and your back before leaving our house, before falling asleep and perhaps before anything else. that's just how my brain is crafted: it always depicts an image of you, an image that i'm holding onto for dear life, because it's the closest thing to sanity, the thing that usually keeps me on the edge of fear: the fear of losing you from my imagination.

am i still flying around you as i was yesterday?

   well, you pissed me off even more than i was. i think i'm mostly pissed at myself for not turning my thoughts of you into our reality, i turned them into my own reality instead. and it's nice— giving and getting a taste of your own medicine. it burns my throat, my existence, but it also hurts to know.

   revenge would be even sweeter if i'd know how to spill these words just like i spill ink.

   but is late night writing a form of therapy? is it making me feel less cautious about what our unclear future holds for us?

   i just checked the inbox. i'm always checking the inbox, sometimes hoping that my brain will do its work and use its charms on you, but— i don't find my brain attractive at all. i used to, but that was before we both screwed our soul-warming relationship up. the thing is, you found my brain attractive at some point, that's what lured you in, that's what made me store myself in you.

   goddamn it, i spilled all my ink on you. it still drips from your forehead as you try to clean yourself up. i can feel that you're washing me away, my dearest, but we both know that i'll remain embedded on your soul, on your entire being. and so will you.