He whispered in my ear last night before we both
drifted off that I needed to promise not to leave him.
I don't think I've ever packed that much passion
into a string of words leaving my mouth, passing
by my lips and into his ear like a virus; an infection
that can only do good, that can only plant seeds
in the middle of his chest where other people have
only jerked out roots. He is windows open wide on
a May morning. He is glass, he is a kaleidoscope
that, when looked through, you can only see the
good in this world. You can see him, and he is
the good. He feels he's a burden, space wasted,
filling the openness of his shoes and feeling like
he's filling the Grand Canyon with worry.
I want to be the house he runs to when he wants
to feel at home. I want him to rest his legs inside
of my veins, take a break from the world and listen
to the rush of my blood; it is throbbing through my
system with such force because I anticipate his
touch even when he's nowhere near.
He is not an unfortunate soul. He is just beginning.
And I want to begin with him.
CZYTASZ
The Wrong Side of Right
Poezja❝We all are addicted to something that ruins us.❞ Just some powerful quotes that I found and compiled them into a book. Highest rank; #1 in Poetry (straight #1 from March 16, 2016 - April 18, 2016)