Idle twist with benefits, one, two, three. Desires that take thorns through skin, but never bleed. How many feelings does it take to get to the center of my soul? The world many never know. I may never know. It’s a secret that nobody knows.
Icicles form in summer skies dripping from my eyes. I am cold, and warmth took a holiday. Yet, I burn.
You can never go back. Ever. Back is a nuclear holocaust wrapped in plastic, so it’s toxic and can’t breathe, and skin ripples, and tears pour into wine glasses blood red so everyone can have one.
I revolve around a barycenter between me and the idea of you. Maybe it’s not the best idea I’ve ever had, but it seemed like a good one at the time. Shut up. Stop. Let me bring the center back inside myself and put it between my head and heart again.