#madisonschill

A food not yet approved, not yet ready for daily consumption.

I keep glazing over photos of his face, his exhausted, open wounds present like pupils on his body;

I’m seeking an unacceptable flaw, a deal breaker, a reason to shut the steel door behind the elegantly carved wooden one I shut before it, matches wet with tears, trembling in my hands as I ready to undo it all, to silence my heart and make do with ashes. 

Nothing.

Hands, down my body, laced with acceptance, adoration, and curiosity, of course. 

Fingers, soft like petals, tumbling through tangles in my hair, over lips of leering, lingering prose. 

When I say the three words to end all doubt, I want the golfball in your throat to turn to stardust; 

The rocks in your stomach turn to diamonds... a brilliant glimpse of buoyancy as their shimmer creeps to fill the whites of your eyes. 

I want fire in small doses, laced with an eternity of small looks and interwoven hands at the small of my back.