I don’t want to write a poem right now
But the vividness with which I can picture your eyes
Tearing into me
The vividness with which I can picture the length of your body
So solid, yet molding, against me
The vividness with which I can see your fingers
Strumming and plucking and playing with…
Your guitar strings, that tea bag, a forkful of spaghetti, my heart
The vividness with which I can see your face, gentle, scratchy, glad
Begging me to trace my fingers over every pore
Is forcing me
To write down how much want I have
And to wonder how much want one is able to have
Before their heart cannot physically bear it anymore?
But the vividness with which I can picture your eyes
Tearing into me
The vividness with which I can picture the length of your body
So solid, yet molding, against me
The vividness with which I can see your fingers
Strumming and plucking and playing with…
Your guitar strings, that tea bag, a forkful of spaghetti, my heart
The vividness with which I can see your face, gentle, scratchy, glad
Begging me to trace my fingers over every pore
Is forcing me
To write down how much want I have
And to wonder how much want one is able to have
Before their heart cannot physically bear it anymore?
I wonder if I should look it up on WebMD.
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