I dreamt of holding you last night and I can’t seem to bury it.

My fingers were planted so tight that I could feel my skin melting into yours, as if we are not in possession of our very own fingertips, as if the world would’ve ended once we let go of each other. This could be a sin I secretly wish to commit every single day, but I dreamt of holding you last night and I was never that kind to myself in my sleep. You were excruciatingly tender and it happens to be the only language I speak besides devotion. Those earthly eyes spoke to me long enough in a way words could never translate and God knows how I was breaking apart.

I was trembling so much when they told me I would never be strong enough to kiss your shoulders and repent. They were nonsensical. Any kind of my strength wouldn’t have come from the absence of you either. If it’s up for me to decide, I’d intertwine every single thread of mine with yours and call them love. The thing is, I admit, I don't know how to touch you without draining my lungs out. I look at you and I believe that this town is burning. I take a glance at you and it feels like the sun has gone to death. I see you and I know you are worth a lifetime of figuring out for. There will be apples sliced for everytime our fingers meet. There might be some other trees planted for every second our shoulders brush. This will be ruining us but I swear we'll learn to get used to it. Poor thing, you. I have never seen anything more noble than you. Inside you are every form of complexity this world could generate and I desperately need you to look at me and lose all your knowledge: except the one about love and how you're drowning my shoulders down. Except the one about me and how I wish to devour your heart and swallow it whole.

So: I dreamt of you last night and I knew this would be another unfinished, discontinued writing of mine.

ref: letters to milena by franz kafka / scheherazade by richard siken / i wouldn’t ask you by clairo