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Dear You,

Sometimes you make me feel sick to my stomach, with this sensation of senselessness; me without you. I’m a little bug trapped under the boot of wanting, being crushed by the weight of the sole; my soul, being weighted by want; my sole want… but being forced to wait. You, being the force of the foot, that stomps my sense…

The world is going down around me. I’m just coming; with you on my mind. Reality is coming apart for me. I’m just going down; for you, in record time. I’m coming too hard, and going down too fast… to come back up from this nosedive. I’m a tiny insect, being pressed against the windshield of desire, being splattered by the force of the course. 

I am claimed by the coarse feeling of windburn — embedded in my exposed vital organs — and marked by the grass stains, that have been pressed into my flesh; tattooed into my skin.

You are the cause, and I am the chained reaction. 

This is the catastrophic kineticism of my affection. 


—ME

comments

26 notes

  1. poetsprologue reblogged this from aquietjoy
  2. aquietjoy reblogged this from ordinarywonder
  3. thecompanionofpoetry reblogged this from ordinarywonder
  4. trixclibrarian said: mmhmm. just wow. as usual. ordinary does not belong in your vicinity.
  5. roggyscanvas said: Shiver me timbers!
  6. ordinarywonder posted this
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