Lately I've been having so much trouble forming coherent sentences, and I thought maybe it had to do something with you. Because I've got bite marks on my lips from all the things I can't say to you and I've got crescent moons indented on my palms from all the times I've stopped my self from blurting things out to you. So as childish as it sounds, I blame you. For residing in my dreams and my invading every thought.

But shit I was always so scared that if I let myself be guided by the butterflies that kissed my skin I would've given myself up to you, to the point of no return

All I'd be left with was the haunting memories that I'd  carry along with my reflection, I wouldn't be able to lift up my shirt without reminiscing the way your hands glided against my stomach and so it would churn at the memory of your fingernails digging into my hip bones and the way my legs would've tangled in the sheets

So I saved myself from the danger of your hungry touch and settled for the bittersweet poison of your soft caress and in the end I'm left contemplating whether I saved myself from the knife of memories, only to realize it was a double edged blade fueled by imagination and desire, and even if you rot my lungs,  I don't mind you being the air that I breathe, by this point there's not really anything I can do besides come to terms with the fact that to the moon and back wasn't as long as I'd hoped.

Because even when I feel the pain of the touch of your arms around my waist and how it still resonates deep in my bones and cracks my ribs, I can't help but feel momentarily engulfed in the scent of the crook of your neck.