With Jetpacks and Stuff

Standard

I may let the full gravity of my words linger; at least until you cross that bridge first. Though the spirit and the depth of those words reside within my heart everyday. I guess it can all be traced back to that moment. Traced down your neck to that crease between shoulder and collarbone; where shrugs are born.

Where I pressed my lips to your skin and found a landmark on the map that is your body. A landmark where I could always feel safe. A landmark I could always come back to. A landmark to remind me…

(And maybe I AM trying to be a little too poetic. Is that so wrong? For so many, words dance so effortlessly from their fingertips. Through plastic casings, marrying with ink to inject a stain onto paper; a permanent testament to what their muse elicits. Yet here I am, modern keyboard clattering away, unable to keep up, let alone translate my thoughts.)

…remind me of how imperfect we both are. 

Yet in our combined flaws we create a better whole. A whole defined by our grandiose hopes and dreams. Though more importantly a whole born from the seemingly insignificant details that perhaps only I can define:

The way your lips linger when we kiss
How perfectly my arm fits in the crook of your back
Your attempts to disarm my gaze when you catch me staring at you surreptitiously 
The warmth of our hands clasped together
When you buck convention and put your arm around me

Mostly:

How just when I think I’m being held at a distance, you pull me in closer and tighter than I dared dream. How your stealth and cunning in this back and forth of affection is what has won me over.

Won me over self-doubt
Won me over reason
Won me over all odds

DFP

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