#amg9

A crowd of pretentious pricks sat outside a cafe I passed today, and I couldn’t help but overhear them use the word ‘desire’ which made my mind travel back to you and the things you do to me. I sometimes find myself awake at four in the morning, imagining what the bedsheets look like at that moment as they drape over your body, shaping you in a way that both hides you and makes you look like a painting in a museum, which is exactly where you belong. You deserve to be looked at and admired by wanting eyes. You’re a piece of modern art. Whenever I see steam pour from a freshly made cup of tea, I almost feel like the shape it creates reflects the lines of your face and I yearn to reach out and touch it, only to see the smoke disappear around my fingers, which then proceeds to remind me that I can’t touch your face in the same way I can’t touch the steam. You move your hips in a way that reminds me of the sway of a ship in the middle of the ocean. They rock back and forth like there’s a stronger force pushing them, making them move in the tranquil way they do that has me so fixated on you and the curves of your body, I find myself blind to everything and everyone but you. I wish my eyes could recognize every print of your fingertips. I wish your print marked items with red ink. I wish I knew every line and every curve so I could become familiar with everything you’ve ever laid your fingers on. I hope you know that on each letter I write to you, I leave a trace of my lips at the bottom, pressed against the paper delicately, with the hope that you will kiss the paper in return, wishing to hit the exact spot my lips were.