literary_.escapades

My lover had returned.

The gnawing distance, those uncatered hours, the sleepless nights when I could've used his arms to wipe over my darkest memories, instead I was mourning for that I envied his absence the most.

I cried because I was overwhelmed that I left at the first instance of space. For he returned to a small box of love, and all the space he climbed back into, that crawling space I left for him in my devious attempt to feel safe. He spoke nothing of it. Lifted the box with ease, pushed it aside, and nuzzled his head close to my heart.

Yes, it beats. yes, he confirms, yes but not as fervently as it did once.

of the prolonged unnecessary distance that he has brought onto us. I do not understand why i am still going through the notions of life if the thread to its existence is away and having the time of his life elsewhere.

Please, please, please let me have what I want.

Only here I beg, I have wanted nothing more than his love and care. If I'm granted an ounce of it, the human nature of mine decides that I want all of it. All of it or none of it.

Please lords above the hells below, I beg anyone who grants, my love for him exceeds me, overpowers me, enlarges me into what I might become.

Every bit of your Excellency raptured right into my memory.

What am I without your scent lapping over my skin, What am I without your lies mapping my scars as streaks drawn for fun. What am I without your calls, your confessions of homing a dried up spasmless heart.

What am I without you?

Perhaps you watched me for a while, perhaps all these transient and over the top trinkets of mine had possessed you in a trance, you were pulled over by nothing but my force. Had I called you over? Had I requested your welcome?

But you knew you were welcomed. You knew where to find your fodder and then you walked over to the tabletop and sat as if you had always taken your seat there.

If I terrify him any further he will find himself helpless. Perhaps he will mend his way for all the wiser and holier forms of affection laid beneath him, in the precipise of my arms.

Perhaps he would decide to terrify me alike.

Couldn't you burn, like the skin of yours does regardless of the heat, could you not defy every one of your lazy natures to beat me at my own game?

I have been coerced to sincerely project myself onto him. Without hesitations, without catalysts. Otherwise I meet wrath.

Our capacities have included a rule, it is each other we make amends for and the rest is not cared for.

He is rather curt and sometimes requests that I ask him less questions but him and I both know better than to let me be quiet. He'll dump his frustrations aside and request to shoot his questions again.

He's made from the cloth you cut loose. The one you abandon in the name of a deformation you do not have plans for.

He's devoutly lonely, prefers it that way, stays quiet like a dead animal when not enabled into conversations.

I am made of the cloth you don't even bother cutting, excuses of a blunt blade or of more important, time taking, effort worthy cloths awaiting your torture.

I've been lonely, watching over lives like the duvet ridden from work for how long it has lived.

He must've whispered how much he adores me, loves me and I missed the thirty five beats left in my list to remember his syllables by memory.

He was speaking in tongues, making promises, confessing, breaking quantum physics by simply standing two feet away and staying two inches deep into my skin.

I think I like you, no.

I know that I like you, no.

Console.

Nurture.

Care.

She is all those moments, when all unsettling parts of living go static.

Sometimes she is the covering cloud you relax at the sight of during summers, sometimes she greets you with the onset of rays during rains. The cool breeze at the beach or the wave of luminescent water touching your feet.

The oath of raking anxiety and always brimming one another- each to their necks with love so warm it burns down the castle, turns the clock upside down. Swords clash, two raging ego's land knocking on hells door.

Sadly, love wins, in flesh wounds and pouring guts.

Although that is when the simple oath of love has to be said. In that painstaking way, soul crushing-crossing all boundaries of right and wrong, all capacities of truths and realities.

All of that, to be passed for life, for a confession of love made as a passing remark? Pathetically borish.

He would be the one with the fattest smile at the sight of smoke and mixed poisons. But he fits in the best round those crowds where everyone's on a singular thought.

For someone with the most frivolous intentions he sometimes would absolutely give me the fright by staring deeply into my soul.

Tonight he urges a sophisticated version of me to pass through-every other night I'm simply a cluttered ruined self.

Has so far forsaken blueberries for the sake of my double chocolates.

Turned harsh edges into the softest corners but just in case in his immediate unavailability had me learn how to cut corners as well. Just in case.

Called him too serious one night, three hours later he's dramatically explaining how I have never bothered him enough.

I look pathetically forlorn in his gallery. He looks like an art dream in mine. His arms are a wavelength I tune into and our lives are the frequency we're fine tuning into.

It's a never ending tale of finding punctuations to keep this story running.

If his presence courses a greater good within me, what is it.

If I am uninhibited, unscathed and eventually poised of greater good, what is it.

If the life happening around me is meant to be felt than written, what is it then.

If everything that is him leads me to greater contemplation of self, what is it then.

This fever is as such.

Hallucinations are it's wasp, no other fever can demand absolute control over my mind, body and soul alike.