Wednesday, March 13, 2013

What I've been telling myself, for the past two years.

I fell in love with the morning,
how you stumbled out of bed
when you first woke up,
and how your eyes groaned with exhaustion.
The way your hands grasped my hipbones
while your lips stole
the endings of my sentences.
Everyday with you felt like a month
of Sunday mornings with white bed sheets
and lazy smiles.

That same morning,
I fell in love with the coffee shop down the street,
and the way you asked for two sugars,
but you actually meant three.

The walk home from your house
made me remember what Monday mornings feel like.

Somewhere in between falling in love
with our midnight conversations
exhaled through cigarette breathes,
and reading the love notes you had written on my flesh,
I realized,
I'm in love with the presence of your words.
and the feel of your existence.

But I'm not in love with you.

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