Loving you was hard, wanting you was harder, but kissing your forehead was insanity.

Eventually I’ll stop writing about you and it’ll be bittersweet. Not because I’m not in love with you, but because I’ll just love you.

I love and I lust and it really doesn’t matter if they love me back because sometimes that’s what love is.

My muse is six feet, a hundred and ninety pounds and cradles my soul in his arms without knowing it.

It was love. It was lust. It was just between us. The passion, the desire, the fire. The way we held on in so little time and his eyes when he saw me for the first time.

I don’t believe he deserves the thousands of poems I’ve written about him, but life doesn’t follow rules. We do things for people who don’t necessarily deserve it. But we liked it, we loved it and fell in love enough to write about it.

I never expected to fall in love. I never expected to float or fall a thousand feet and create the crevice I called my life. But the thing with crevices, there’s always a top and always a bottom. And the feeling of appreciation when you look from the top and understand how fast it can all come crashing down — it’s more than beautiful and more than words could ever explain.

It was the way I kissed your thighs.

You mixed love with lust and assumed you loved me, which made me question the entirety of our relationship.