I hope you grow tired of each other.
I hope you've touched and pried open every corner of your bodies that you...
Have to wash your hands every time you touch them.
I hope you've stared for hours into each other's eyes that you can't stand the sight of them.
I hope that you've loved so much that you can't love, anymore.
My mom tells me that love is a good thing, that love brings joy and sadness, but I choose neither.
I refuse to pick of those three: black white or gray.
I want a color that suits us perfectly, a bench that's just enough space for our bodies, not touching.
Because if I touch you, I'll grow use to it,
by then...
You will not be special.
