Plethora [Of Poetry]

}93{

I don't know why I love you so much. Maybe it was the way we talked. Or the way you looked through my brick walls. Or the way you know when to stop. Or the way your eyes curve when you smile. Or maybe it's just because you're a human that feels familiar. If you'd let me, I'd love you like the last of my kind. Only different in tone of voice and colour of hair (mine is brown yours is lighter). Only different in size of hands and maybe the height of our bodies (I'm taller than you). You are the last of my kind. The kind that loves, the kind that understands, the kind that doesn't put everything away behind walls. The kind that doesn't encourage death as a joke. The kind that loves relentlessly. The kind that smiles genuinely. The kind that looks a lot more like me, than most. Only different in the colour of our personalities.

Oh, but how can I tell you. You'd think I'm weird right? You'd think I'm going mad, you'd think I was crazy. You'd think I drank too much of whatever it was we drank together. You'd think I was high, feeling like sliding glass at 9pm. You wouldn't see me the same. Even if I did call you the last of my kind. My kind. The kind that understands, right? Well am I wrong to ask you? Why am I like this? I am the kind that loves, that understands, the kind that doesn't put everything away behind walls (only some). The kind that doesn't encourage death as a joke. The kind that loves relentlessly. The kind that smiles genuinely. The kind that's self-contained. The kind that's hidden and weakening.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.