Crushed
Poetic ramblings, again
The trachea is the symptom.
You wound it tight with my inhalation, and left me
to the cliché, breathless.
Descriptively true as I beam, suddenly three years old in my euphoric smallness at
Receiving your text.
I love these Xed pixels
these curved arial syllables
That symbolise a maybe I can only ever reach for in slumber or daydreaming
That somehow, someday, with tropic serenity you could turn and say you loved me
Or if not love, then just a kiss, long three seconds as you press my jaw and I grip your sleeves
Perhaps it is best a fantasy
But at least I can skip a beat at my silent hoping.
