Be Vewy Vewy Qwuiet

I can't tell her about the nights I lay out to gaze at stars and wish i was looking into her eyes.
I can't tell her how I'd turn down Mozart and lean against the bathroom door just to listen to her sing.
I cant tell her that I'd rather put a box of puppies dressed as sailors down and hold her hand just a little bit longer.
I can't tell her about the mind control she acquires while I'm captivated by her scent every time she moves past me.
I can't tell her how I lose my appetite by the simple taste of her sweet soft lips.

I can't tell her that I begin every day hoping for a beautiful end to it with her because it is only her that I wish to see, hear, feel, smell and taste day after day, time after time, in a seemingly continuous plateau of sensory satisfaction that my mind cannot break down and my heart may never completely grasp.

She can't know how to defeat me. She can't know to defeat my relentless passion she merely has to distinguish the essence of her that embodies every aspect of beauty I yearn to make memories with.

gone baby gone

love is tricky. here's the problem: there's a hierarchical time line. past, present and future. the past reflects an established order of thought altering the present either reluctantly fearful or aggressively optimistic for the future, naive in its essence epitomizing high risk high reward; the epitome of a gamblers disease or the self destruction of the beauty that held the flicker of light in the first place. you think you know a person until they're tested. a scramble to re-order their priorities leaves you confused and unrelenting. a last ditch effort to regain the line that held your souls counterpart. you hold the rope as the speed in which it departs burns every bit that you hold tight. it's past the point that you want to pull a person back from abrupt abyss. you just want to run to someone that wants to run with you. tip being: don't chase the ones that are never real with their friends. cut her down or cut her loose