I hope that you are not asleep, even when it is 4 o’clock in the morning. Not that I have a sovereign urge to talk to you this very minute, but anything to brush off this heavy heart of mine, one that I wear on my sleeve like an open sore.
It is indeed an open sore right now. It has been an open sore for three days time. You know that and you, without hesitation and with confidence, take your hand and reach closer to it every second we are together.
So maybe that means something.
So maybe that means you want to take it out, comfort it, and call it your own.
Everything was a mess on the floor. Together our clothes made a beating mess, the type of mess you knew how to fix. But even after last night, when I kissed you and meant it. When our lips touched, the soles of my feet melted into your wooden floor boards, below the carpet, below the floor. The tips of my fingers rummaging to find certain weak spots. Everything was done slowly and with care.
Every step was intricate, elaborate, and beautifully crafted as an art.
But in the dark, I couldn’t get my heart out of the pile of warm clothes that we called ours.
