I know it sounds pompous but...the passion of lovers is for death, indeed.

There is this soft demeanor I want to keep under my sheets, sheets I’ve shared with you a couple of times, because you were still so little to visit you at home, because I know I know, when I was alone I could write and now that I’m with you I can bake cakes, but no one asked me if that’s what I want, is this a god’s way to tell you : you don’t deserve balance unless you share your burning embrace, you don’t deserve long nights of understanding and flitting secrets unless you put your heart in a cage, my body rattling tattling like a colorful snake- I don’t want to draw your face, I don’t want to take pictures of you and the more I do, the more bound I become to you, goddammit I love you.
The small hands, white and trembling and a pair of eyes with constant agony and sympathy lingering
I’ve read about you in novels and the medical department
Disorder, anxiety, my life has them, these are your life.