
Metaphors stretch and strain as your name is written. They remind me of myself in your arms. They beg for punishment in lust, in desire, in fire. They cry for consumption and release.
Words beg to be quenched, but are left parched and bruised. Before the sun sets on your name I will become a beggar, always asking for a cup to be filled, always living on hope, on prayer, and the whims of strangers.
Don’t read into the subtext, it does not exist. I will hold up artwork for you to look at and understand. This is not you. This is not me. These are words struggling to define a passion that makes aching mandatory, and desire a paintbrush you are masterful in using.
I am a blank canvas, something still unknown, uncreated, wanting. Paint me with your forbidden colours. Hang me in a dark hall. Let the shadows have their way with me.
I will watch you from hidden pages in a book you once forgot, and leave clues in the footnotes. I will be what you desire in moments of aching and loss. When your mind begs to know your heart, you will fail to find the words.
These stories are not ours, they belong to tales best left to lovers, and dreamers, and those who believe in happy endings.
We are not crossed by stars, only by signs we both forgot how to read. The tale is told, and it is time to put the books to rest.
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