Maybe you're not aware of this, but I love you a whole lot. It might be like what the moon feels for the stars—you know, effulgent and enveloping. A limit of infinity. Impossible and innumerable.
Maybe we could frame windows in our fingers and cut glass with the sharp pump of a heartbeat. Our bodies will go warm every time you hold onto better days the way you would hold me.
I'm jealous of the way the moths look for the moon, never reaching its surface but never stopping to care. This is when you let me tell you that I like you more, to stop my heart from swallowing the ocean's reserves of salt. This is when I haphazardly dream in wild dilations of the fabric of our hands when they meet.
It could feel like a pattern etched into a glazed bowl, glass and static climbing to the rim. It could smell like summer's hair singed by bonfires. (I hope not though). It could look like black poplars bending to the heaving chest of the sea, or vultures preening and sighing over your beautiful bones. It could mean luck and gratitude, lace and silver.
It could mean nothing at all.
And I am flawed
But I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself.
YOU ARE READING
Stealing Pulse
Teen FictionThis is a story about me. My life as I see it. I tell it in the first person and it is written like a diary entry, only more intimate. I don't hold anything back, so prepare yourself for the raw, uncensored, and compassionate story of what its like...
