No, I don’t write anything while I’m drunk.
The way your form shifts against my bones.The line that draws long between my back and your chest. These things are symmetrical in the same way that they are organic and ill-formed. No specific shape or geometrical pattern is present, but there is synonymity. Between my spine and your breast, there forms a home from two similar shapes. A current moves through, as if it has always been there. As if it knew its place far before we ever let it be there. Before I knew it could be there.
Please excuse my inability to comprehend wonder and beauty when it is placed at my feet. Please excuse my weariness to accept your magnetic and enigmatic soul.
My mind constantly scrambles to catch up with the cinematic feature of you that unfolds in chapters before my eyes each day.
I am but a trembling pebble in the wake of this earthquake we call connection.