love has always seemed too palpable in my hands, on my fingertips, in my hair, seeping into my mouth
what is it to love to the rhythmic cyclical motions of giving yourself giving yourself giving yourself until you are hollowed husk of scraped together heart pieces?
what is it to fall in love with a single kiss and spend your days your nights your tears & dreams chasing the intoxicating high it left buzzing on your tongue?
what is it to call yourself someone's home, scoop yourself empty - toss bone skin fat intestines - and let them crawl into your being till you cannot remember how it felt to feel your own skin?
love has always seemed too easy to mistake, too ready to appear, a slow acting carcinogen
how is it love to sprawl fingers along empty sheets - sweep the room of traces of encased loneliness- blame the red eyes on dusting the memory of what should have been
how is it love to to meet your palms together echoing a lullaby to rock your lavender eyelids to a sunset that centers in your chest
how is it love to lay awake feeling yourself give way to waves that crash along the shore of your stomach, fill your lungs to the brim with seagull feathered regrets - taste sea glass cut into your throat feel the grotto of your mouth flood
why is it love to be consumed but never feel fulfilled?
why did i learn to give but never to get?
For kryptoned Aurelia you deserve entire galaxies named after you