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You feel a need to

You breathe life into my days.

I don't intend to be flowery, because this is what I'll do. I'd bite your ear, and trace it with my tongue. I'd plant kisses down the nape of your neck, down your collar bones, graze the corners of your lips, and suck on them like vanilla flavoured chupa chups.

You woke up the poet in me.

Picture thick sheets beneath me, indents, still warm, made by all fours. Your hips joined to mine, back arched attracting, and repelling, and attracting, and repelling. Your favourite point of view.

I. I crave for someone new on the daily, and this time, your smoke filled mouth, inked arms, and fingers. II. You’re not like him, nothing wild like fire, just a warm amber glow and hushed voices. You might have been at 22, I see hints of your former self, but you’re 25 now, still inked, still smoke filled lungs, mouth, maybe, I can’t be sure. I am as uncertain about you as I am about myself. III. You make my heart ache, the both of you, the sole reason I’m intrigued.

Our skin and bones touch like it's a warzone, scorched lips and sunburnt backs.

Three day old laundry, and soles of sized 7, no, 7 and a half, feet, soiled with mud, but nobody cares for another “case closed” anymore now do they? Nobody but you. The only crowd pleasing question, ironically yet not appalling, is in fact this : Are you human, Sherlock? Do you live and breath the same air that we do? You think yourself incapable of feeling, something to do with a sign of weakness and it’s ability to ruin logical deductions, you say. Appearing aloof to death and the lost of a child, and yet you shot a man point blank in front of your brother, for my wife, and ultimately, for me. Oh your foolish pride. Even as the universe begs to differ, your facade is weakening. You have to eliminate all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, remember? I see you through my eyes, Sherlock, I see the root of your worries, and it’s absolute that you are. You are, you are, you are. You are so very human, to the highest degree.

I don’t want you enough to keep a distance from my conscience of wanting you as much as other men. You have taught me well, though I can’t be certain that it’s not innate. I’m a good sport when it comes to the game. Maybe even better.

I’ve been churning out poems and books about us in hopes that I’ll one day be wrung dry of all the words I could possibly think of, all the metephors of the world to describe our sadness, and when I’ve emptied out, when I stop, so will the ache.

“I am more than what I wake up to each morning,” I said, half asleep, to the person I see standing across me in the mirror, and strangely enough, that gives me more hope for good than I could ever ask for.

How is it that even with your best self on display, you are not enough?

You were supposed to love me, Not reduce me to dust.

I have a heart. I have a heart perfectly capable of doing all “heart things" like beating, Loving, Hurting, Understanding, Wanting and Accepting etc. But unlike some, I also have a heart perfectly capable of turning to stone when it needs to, Building walls and turning cold, When it needs to. And I most definitely take pride in that. I most definitely do.