You are not your past. You are far too paradoxically ephemeral and transcendent to be boxed in and defined that way, but it is a part of you. Your scars, like constellations on your skin, tell a story of despair and madness and chaos turned beautifully triumphant, albeit still haunting.
You are your present. The way your blue eyes twinkle when you laugh as we share that secret silliness that no one knows but us. The way your hands – so much bigger than mine – intertwine with my fingers as we whisper under the sheets: tendons connected, hearts becoming one. The way your body collapses from exhaustion after battling your demons all night.
There’s a universe in your head, I know. There’s one in my own, too.
Let’s live in our own little worlds, together.
I want to share that three-o’ clock-in-the-morning sleeplessness with you. If you’re awake wrestling with the insanity that makes up this crazy world, then so am I. We’re in this together. Always and a day.
You are your future. I’d like to be part of that equation, too. I want your darkest moments: when you’re shaking with anxiety, tormented by those thoughts that you just can’t seem to let go.
Let yourself rest, my love. I want to whisper words into your mouth through my kiss, exhaling my truth into your lungs: you’re so much more than who you’ve been, and you’ll do much more than what you’ve done.
I want to trace constellations into your skin: freckle to freckle, absorbing and releasing the carbon energy that was ignited in your being upon the creation of your existence.
I want to be the hand that holds you now and the hand that will still hold you when we finally figure out what forever actually means.
I want your tormented mind. I want your honesty. I want your brilliance. I want your flaws.
I want you and nothing less, which is everything to me.