He says that he wants to visualize the world through a permanent scope of childish wonder.

He says it with a thick haze pouring into his lungs like the life giving essence of creation rushing into his veins and pouring out vengefully through his fingertips. The same fingertips that pinch and tease my flesh, molding my pale prickling skin hungrily and forcefully against his own. 

I am a cold heart wrapped in shards of glass and thorns waiting in quiet agony to be ripped open and torn from my cage. I want his hands to trace my every line an contour, pouring out his smoky haze into my starry eyed gaze that watches indifferent as he steals small pieces of my soul for himself.

All for himself

If I am luck I will catch a small sliver his essence for myself. If I am lucky he will cut out my freezing soul and draw a million and three works of art over every fallen tear and every moment of regret that haunts me in the empty seconds of every lonely breath. If I am lucky, my heart will fold in on itself, become smaller with each crumpled crack and scar and I will forget this nostalgic longing for something I don't feel until it leaves me simultaneously empty and full of life.

If I am lucky, this is what it means to love.