spanish coffee eyes, and the love that follows.
We can sleep infinitely here in the spaces designed for our hearts. Our fingers overlap in between the sheets that kiss the rise and falls of our bodies, and our lips tremble in closeness, quivering with silent phrases that cut through broken flesh and memories. Resting here, we're silent in our admission that what we've chosen is settlement, nothing more than a device to feed our hearts but empty our souls. What is love without soul but a shadow without light: all darkness and nothing to break between the spaces that define us. We feed on the fragments of souls because we're desperate to exist, desperate to matter. Our bodies ache in the uneven spaces that we've forced ourselves into because faking the feeling in our hearts is something that exists, unlike the absence of any feeling. I want to feel. I want to exist. This has to be real.
The ridges of your fingertip break the surface of still water, and the slip of your lip quips into a s