Those closed eyes used to talk—they used to shout, actually. You rambled with the end of your days and kissed the plague away.
He will kiss me before the night ends and recite my different levels of beauty in trivial ways.
His words touch me more than his hands can and I have to convince myself that he isn’t just an illusion. He exists as much as my lips can kiss and I’m tonguing down air right now.
And I’ve always desired you.