Please don't write on my t-shirt
I'm a (s)mile and a half away from loving you all my life.
Or I might have passed that point already.
I don't know.
One of your (many) powers in bed
is making irrelevant
time
distance
speed
culture
weather;
anything outside the safe zone
delimited by the edges of your bed.
It's cold out there,
and I've never felt so warm.
Is it autumn yet?
You asked me to write for you
and I found myself alive and buried
in the cemetery of your body.
How can I feel so naked whilst wearing so many clothes?
I die and resuscitate into a better version of myself every morning.
I have told you so much
I should have killed you
two Sundays ago
instead of fucking during Church hours.
Miracle or sin?
Let me be the surgeon that attaches your soul to mine,
it won't hurt
unless you leave.
How long now until November?
Make me yours
and ours
and love
and laugh.
Make me laugh.
It's always been your laugh.
I can't think of a better way of dying than laughing next to you.
Or dying for you
or with you
or on you.
Wait, it's 2017, right?
Eternity means unfinished,
you should look, but never go back
to the beginning.
I am mad about you,
and.
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