DEAR, YOU:
you claim not to think of me, but the sweat - that i would love to taste, no doubt - clinging to the back of your legs is what narrates a story in a language only you and i understand.
the trembling of your nimble fingers refute your claims, too, as the chronicles only continue, and i hear gushing - like the breaking of a dam.
i also hear the name you whisper in the dead of night.
("i like being wound up--it gives me an edge.")
YOU ARE READING
conflict of interest
Poetrythe struggle of a boy-wonder's first love art credits ky-landfill on tumblr damian wayne i know you write letters and i know you struggle with loving so this one's for you
