And again I’m in your arms. Searching your skin for some small comfort. Your touch, this time, is love’s purest tender. Your hold, for now, is a fortress I feel safe in. Maybe, once more, I can call your body home.
I couldn’t care less how much money a person has, or what their job title is. Show me a person who seeks out the beauty in a wreckage; who’ll take the remnants of their troubles and stitch a sail from the tatters.
Welcome to the heart of me, the purest, uncut parts of me. These inmost fragments that you see, from pain and passion came to be, in blemished, unclothed intimacy, existing here as poetry.
I was told I could break free if I wanted to. That my wings would mend with time. But how can I mend a part of me that was never built to weather a storm?
What’s the end game? Well, when hate is your agenda, and my own is but love, then this game is not one in which you feature, and my end, is a far-flung world from yours.
Champagne on our lips and desire on our minds and you can leave those painful memories behind and you can bring your hand to my heart as we kiss. There’s nothing else but us on nights like this.
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