I want to write you a love letter.
I want to catch your fingertips and unravel you in ribbons of red satin.
I want to fill your quiet places with the memory of my voice.
I want to envy your fall while I orchestrate the means of your descent.
I want to be your fondest regret.
2 thoughts on “the inevitability of love”
You’re tempted by the purity of starting over, this week? There is such emptiness here, though. This is not merely a vastness of space to fill in any manner I choose (or fate allows), rich in wonder and possibility: it is lacking in anything tangible to hold onto. Directionless. A void.
I suppose that will change, in time.
I, too, am tempted by the purity of starting over. The temptation is corrupted by the lack of options though. If only someone wanted to be my fondest regret.