You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...

-Walt Whitman



I HAVE THIS IMPULSE to break you into tiny little pieces, into dust particles I would watch in wonder as they settle, slowly, in my hands. How blunt, faint is your shadow on a wall, in half-light, against the darkness that surrounds us. I find loneliness in the fact that I haven’t memorized your hands yet; these fingers longing for your fingers to fill the spaces in between. Allow me and you will linger, safe within the confines of the written word. Bask in a time when the moles on your skin will cease as stains and become the only stars I will ever see, mapping them with my own. Can you imagine how our night sky would look like? Look up. We are two universes colliding as love pulsates in every click and strain of bones. I will love you, break you, into million minute details just to paint a still and exact image of how significant and how big you really are.

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