Always will I want you; for my love is not feasible more so explicit

I want to wake always with none but you tangled in six-hundred thread count beside me. My hair is on my pillow.

Your hair is on my pillow.

I always want to twist my fingers between your fingers and trace gingerly the lines on your skin. I want to ask you tenderly “what does this mean?“, and taste the salt left on your skin after we made each other sweat the night before.

To know you will cut my fringe when it grows too long for me to clearly see how brilliant you are and that you will read me forwards, backwards and diagonally to etch my every meaning into your soul. For you to know that when I bruise it may not have been a rough encounter, when I am sewn together by needle and by thread I need more than seven days before the stitching may be removed, to know when wounded I bleed heavily and cry enough to encapsulate mountains, to know that I am not in love by choice but by happenstance or perhaps rather instance.

I want always to know that you will be my overmorrow and each morrow thereafter.

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