these little things

at night when crescent moons find themselves reflected in the nails with which you clutch your face, attempting again to make it perfect

(and failing,
but only because it was never flawed)

i will steal (because taking by force is the only way in times like these) into your bedroom

i will cross paths with the moon for a moment and believe that i am god (perhaps)

i will crawl into your bed like an incestuous father to cleave myself unto your side, but i will not touch you wrongly;
i will wrap my arms around the shape of you and squeeze, tightly,
until all the pieces of you fuse together again and you know in your sleep as i whisper near the delicate shell of your ear that i find you



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