Sometimes it's about feeling
before you were ever thinking. Lady, let's ionize the atmosphere
with your breath against mine. I think I'm ready. I think
you're not. I'm wrong on both counts, and it doesn't matter in the slightest.
I once didn't believe in these things,
and when I tell you I'm certain now it's because I'm not sure. And that feels
agonizing
overwhelming
terrifying
and beautiful.
And you are so beautiful.

I wish I could write my thoughts down on little postcards, keep a diary of
when I love you and when I don't. Thinking of you... and the last time we kissed. Thinking of you... and wondering why
you shied away from that glance. Thinking of you... loving me unconditionally
even though you never did. Thinking of you with your hair over your sleeping eyes, your head on my arm, my hand tingling. Thinking of you...
Thinking of you...
Thinking of you...

Love is
consensual non-consent.
It's a choice to be stupid and crazy and powerless
it's a decision to be caught off-guard by your beauty
it's sheer willpower just to understand things the way that you do.
When I open my heart
I close my mind – just a little – to the possibility that you are not
perfect in every way, that those little foibles don't
make you amazing and wonderful and unique, that your choice is not
mine, and that I will always, always, always,
never choose you.

My heart's in the right place. My head will follow.
Sometimes kicking and screaming.