It is difficult to write about things that are not you. Which is how I say it is difficult to not write about love. I find myself with this thought every now again. It perches in my head much like an apprehensive stray cat that both needs and craves the food you may provide, and…
underneath your hands, I become poetry, I love you intentionally. I have built deep in my heart, a chapel filled with you. I would kneel and worship, and praise. If it meant you could spare me an offering. A small sign from a loveless, finite God. It was my love that made you one, and…
kyopsia 