There's a corner of your heart.

clavicola:

Yes, because I would rather not imagine
a world where where I’d wake up in the morning to you
in the kitchen; the smell of coffee grounds on your fingertips.
You, standing by the kitchen sink, looking out at the woman
across the street selling pomegranates in a white dress, and
smiling, as she smiled. 

I don’t need to imagine my voice, foreign in the mornings,
whisper your name by the doorway, and you, turning around
and falling in love with me again in a new light, with your skin like burning 
eggshells by the windowsill. 

Because this is how the story goes.
I’m falling for someone with a crooked heart because I want to
try to snap his bones back into place
so he doesn’t feel with a limp any longer. 

And this is how it ends.

I wrap my arms around your middle
and smell my love on your skin; kiss the spaces
between your spine, and wake,
never being able to dream further than the safety
of a man’s back. 

Because I’m well aware that my fingertips have never
asked yours if they’d take this dance. 
And the smile you give me like a gold token isn’t enough
to buy the prize on the top shelf. 

You are my oversized Bugs Bunny stuffed animal.

You are coffee grounds, soft lips, straight teeth. 

And I can’t afford to dream of you,
knowing that you’re not dreaming of me
too.

(via afewinterestingrevelations)