Truly I am angry because I love you, however much you whine.
These are my thoughts, they are polaroids, simply of you.
Structures, architecture, the encasement of the heart. I am in lust with the curve of your ribs around your lungs and how fragile your wrists look. Today, I think myself a builder, smothering your skin thick with concrete so that your soul will not fall out whilst you shout. When we lie in bed and you are asleep, I run my fingers along your spine and whisper that you are my moon.
Last night I heard you stamping (because you never got your way), but I love the way you stand and so I could only imagine my hands around your throat accompanied by the sound of my jutting hipbones against yours.
Your skull fits perfectly in my palms, do you know that? Like it was meant to be held there for half an eternity (at least). Yes, I am jumping up and down your body, flitting from head to toe to head, because
my eyes will rove so. The
scape of your torso, you are a
Henry Moore sculpture to me.