I think of you in the morning
before the sun rises,
when in the still of the darkness
my heart feels your presence,
your love, your tenderness, your slow rhythmic breathing as you sleep. And I am at peace.
I think of you when
the first rays of sunlight
spill like a waterfall between the blinds
and settle in my eyes.
I reach my hand, my foot, any body part will do,
to touch you and breathe you in.
It feeds my heart, my soul, my spirit,
and I am at peace.
I think of you at noon
when the sun is at its highest,
when the heat warms my skin
and causes my eyes to close with sheer pleasure.
Thoughts of you surround me, envelop me, overpower me. Images of you swirl around like a funnel cloud, sucking into its grasp all that it touches, and I am at peace.
I think of you when the sun is setting
and its final rays of light begin to fade.
I can hear your voice, deep, soft, and slow in my head-- words of beauty, joy, friendship, and everlasting love.
My heart begins to sing a love song so sweet and so gentle.
I cannot wait to share my day with you and yours with me.
And I am at peace.
I think of you when the sun has set and the stillness of the moon
is displaying one of its
many wondrous phases.
Thoughts of your smile, your laugh, and your eyes create a feeling that is impossible to express with just words.
The need to touch you,
to feel you, to drink you in
is almost too much to hold inside.
Anticipation of you is the greatest gift.
I am at peace.
You hate yourself for loving her.
You hate yourself for being
unable to chase her from your thoughts,
your dreams,
the insides of your eyelids, and your every waking moment,
because she is everywhere you look.
She is the rain, calm and peaceful and seemingly gentle, but she sends shivers down your spine when she touches you.
Her long fingers, cold,
friendly, unknowing.
She tells you that she isn’t perfect,
because of course she isn’t.
The word perfect barely
begins to sum up her eyes.
The word perfect barely begins to describe all of her faulted beauty.
She is flawless and yet so flawed. She is beauty and terror, and she is the desperate ache in your throat when she looks at you.
You hate yourself for wanting her.
You hate yourself for wanting her so much
that the lines on your wrists bleed her name.
But the pain is nothing compared
to what you feel when you look at her.
It is nothing compared to the way you bite your tongue when she looks at you.
You hate yourself for hiding from her. You hate yourself for avoiding eye contact, but you know that if she looks you in the eye she will see right through you, and you almost want her to.