I think I really am alone now, but the beating of my heart makes a thunderous sound; it’s the tell-tale heart beneath the floorboards. It’s the agonizing hope that I won’t die alone, yet fully aware I will, die alone. It’s the serrated edge of a dagger I continuously thrust myself upon, just to bleed. 

It’s like ‘someday, sometime or almost’ are somehow the real motto’s to live serendipitously by, while sheepishly looking away and yet always looking within. Or is looking within and never looking away? 

I just want to stay here snuggled up in this silly surreal dream I keep having, where I am cherished and all is not lost on the idea that I am being loved by you. 

The dream that wakes and haunts me long after my eyes open and long after I’ve touched myself. The dream that is not lost swimming in the simplicities of desire and lust, but orgasming at the height of complexities cradled in the notion of being seen and felt. The safety of the intimacy in letting go, while being held lovingly in your arms and knowing I am the only place you want to be; today, tomorrow and all of your yesterdays.