In a wash of ink and tears, my words are barely here, my clenched up heart has fallen, is frightened, of how you command me to see your fleshy, yet holy love. Yet, you lose your bright mind too far in the stars, so late at night. I know not the difference between the crab and the maiden; your passion versus my own, and do not care, silly one. Even my laughter here bears my weeping. Frau Serene; the mercury-silver two-sided coin! You are at once both a girl of few words, soul-trapping eyes and petal touches; my meek mime, and then, on the flipped side, you are dressed in nothing but your words and your pearls, coming on to me like moss, all without the fear of having to entertain your heart, without all the dark pressure of coitus. Everywhere hurts because your moss is not growing on me now, and my words are going away white! The moon is as pure and true as the night allows it to be. The night stifles. I am half-here and more spirit than skin. That is why you could not write about the sun… but in the mornings, you still do not run. Please don’t ever run, Serene. Mean it, Poetess, that I am worthy of all your love. I will become the wanderer, crawling to you, washing your tired feet, scolding myself for making them so sore from the fear of my ugly heart. Please don’t ever run. Step gently on me. I am yours. Yours.
baratheonpilled
theartofmadeline
izzy806
yousharknotpass
