he doesn’t know the kind of poetry i’d write in his name if he’d let me,nor of the feelings he ignites inside my chest that,on most days,leave me gasping for air; ﹠ on others,are the warm and careful touches of a gentle lover … he doesn’t know.
then you kissed me — i felt hot wax on my forehead. i wanted it to leave a mark; that's how i knew i loved you. because i wanted to be burned, stamped, to have something in the end.