You tell me holding hands isn't your thing.

My stomach starts to rise through my arteries up my lungs until our hands drop.

There's too many bones in my wrists that are reaching out to you that there's no breaking them.

I count each blue and green vein in your palm tracing it like a maze that my fingers have trapped you in.

You tell me we wouldn't make a good together.

I'm now the ice that you used to revive my body with, after I strained your name.

I felt your weight in between my legs that wrapped around your back.

As ice I melted into a heartbeat that descended down my spine and cradled my waist from the new beat we made.

Your eyes are the Caribbean Sea. 

Not the glass that gets cut each time waves overflow on the shore but the lily pads

of a pond that holds so much life in such little space. 

They are beautiful. 

My ankles have felt your shoulder muscles and they where the strength of rising water

that rippled through my body. 

Through our bodies.

You tell me holding hands isn't your thing. 

Then you glide your soft fingers along my surface just so I can come up for air.

You tell me we wouldn't make a good together, but the sky will always be there to reflect the oceans outer space

and the sky's deepest trenches. 

So I guess that's why I ended up falling for the texture of naked bedsheets, 

and why I let you fold me into place.

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