What do I love? Is it the curving edges of your lashes glistening against the reaching rays of a hungry sun. Or is it that blink, when you stop for a second’s quick think. Like receding waters- leaving the world with just enough time to brace for the impact of your words.
Is it the weak melting of your fingertips between the gaps in these keys faded over words you wrote for someone else’s song. Or is it that painful pang I love. That nagging fog for a dream that haunts as you turn half-conscious in your sleep.
What do I love? Is it the pieces of darkness you’ve nicknamed, heart. Like broken asteroids they float, liberated and purposed against the starlit canvas of your mind.
Is it that I love or is it the off key notes of a muted guitar, graying the temperature of the stories on your skin; quiet storms, where the good, bad and the painful play the Madhatter’s song in a raging symphony no one else can hear.
Love I do, but there is one of which I was never taught, a love that cruises these fine lines that curve and bend in shapes they tell me cannot ever be loved. It’s in these folds where all ideas of you end, and I become.
Perhaps, that’s what I love the most.