meh.

patience; the one virtue we so desperately  demand to manifest.   irony is life, laughing out loud.

wild flowers bloom in death valley;   proof that talk is cheap and a name means nothing if actions refute it.     love  is a noun is a verb is a desert flower.

love finds me tracing the details in your fabric, memorizing the woven fibers of your being.      the casual, miraculous light in your eyes is the only force on earth i find worthy of worship.

loving you has taught me that deliverance is chosen; embracing the design flaws of these human hearts and loving beyond them, that is true salvation.     you take me apart in ways that don't hurt, in ways just soft enough to let the light in.

today i read a fact, that we, humans, are the only animals that can draw straight lines. i find this funny, since this experience is anything but.

sometimes i think about the days before you and wonder how i ever called it a life; going through the motions pales in comparison to the true experience of the dance. i realize now that those days were a necessary trip needed to iron gratitude into these stubbornly insatiable veins.

these glass hearts watch the clock, fearfully anticipating the exact moment that reality's touch will initiate the shatter; why we so afraid of breaking down? it's funny how we focus all our peace of mind on keeping it together, completely forgetting the fact that we are born of pieces forged together in the hottest fires.

exhausted, we collapse onto this makeshift altar of sleep, holding each other as we laugh at the pain that scratches at the door. my wanting lips find your wildflower smile, red wine stained and a little hazy. i realize now that heaven is a feeling not a place, hiding itself in all the moments that let us forget the hurting.

wearing thunder as a coat of arms, i let fear turn to dust in opening fists. stitched upon this sycamore skin, the kisses of lightning strikes; scars are shocking proof of life, and these lines read like poetry.