January spoke your name,
Falling at once, hushed,
The hot, tired earth,
Your arms stretching up and down Broadway,
Your smile pressed against,
The beating traffic of the city.
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way."
—A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
Recently, friends have been asking me (quite casually) if I have ever been in love. Is that a common question to receive?
You and I, my love, we are different. I am composed of sensitive silence, soft breezes with too many feelings. You are a stubborn but steady combustion, a flame that steadily grows, consuming forests at large.
I emote through my fingers with my back turned and I dry my emotions with the edges of my sleeves. You are a brick wall of loud that slams into my waves.
At some point we drew a line down our floor-set mattress establishing boundaries within the confines of our book-bordered bed, separating
Our bodies become question marks, your feet touching mine but only on accident.
Yes. Yass. Yes.