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"Hey There Delilah" Makes me think of you, you know Except, you don't know
Dear Darling, You know how I feel. When will you feel it too? Will you ever? Dear Darling, I'm starting to dream of us. How one day we could rule the world. You are my prince;
I look at you and I cannot believe that you don't know can't feel my depth of love, cannot reach your hand inside my heart and pull yourself out. I wonder feverishly
Weave flowers through your hair while we sit in the garden. To be alone with you, not touching, never touching, is a sublime torture, an exercise in self-denial and gratification,
I wish you talked about me the way you talk about him. You float through thoughts of him while I drown in thoughts of you. Your aching lungs are full again and you swear you found your breath
No one told me that I would suffer for the muse. I wake up; I think of her. I write; I think of her. I eat, drink, sleep; I think of her. She never thinks of me.
You were never mine but I wanted you. I wanted with every bruised limb of my body every crack in my faulty brain every beat of my cold heart. I have never wanted anything more than you.
I cannot write if it's not about you. I cannot think of anything but you. I cannot sleep without dreaming of you. I miss you. The black void yawns before me. I go to it, arms open
I would carry the weight of the world for you if I could like Atlas. My spine is weak and slumped under my own weight but I promise I won't let you down.
Muses are supposed to be: soft, loving; passionate, burning; But you are: lost, looking. Your eyes are wide open, always searching; you see everything, but find nothing.
The only dreams I remember are the ones where we're together. laughter soft smiles skin on skin loose lips clashing teeth twisting tongues hand in hand
You are a nuclear weapon with the power to decimate, end the world, end my world. I would let you, but I hope we can make peace; sign a treaty to protect our hearts,
In these bootless days of pondering this My heart lays dormant and still in my chest Like the hand on a clock, not at it’s best Waiting for my prince enveloped in bliss
wish i were a florist of oldto drape you in leaves of laurel goldazaleas for your striking charmwishes for peace and embraces warm
I am here where you are not. I am trapped in a singular frame of mind With pressing thoughts of lonliness and yearing That never seem to dissapate. The more that I revert to leaving you behind,
I found lovein all sorts of places.I could coax it into appearingeven when a heart was withanother,though those weightswill never drop.I found it in the dog-eared pages