fresh paint

It’s a familiar sting, the sunburn of fresh, unfiltered euphoria. The aching pain that comes after a night spent under sweet provocations. Suddenly, something real has emerged. From chance, you molded something that you no longer know how to be without. A shadow casts across your sprawling lands and you can’t remember a day when you weren’t sheltered in its shade. So solid it can blot out the sun, so potent it overtakes Spring’s honeysuckle. Suddenly, the fear of losing something wonderful overtakes the ability to fawn over it.

Spinning in dizzying circles on tip toes, I attempt to navigate around my burgeoning feelings without tripping the alarm. I imagine that the hot winds of my heart might lash again your supple cheek. I hope that, somewhere inside, you harbor a similar hurricane. But in the event that you’re still experiencing a pleasant breeze, I contain what longs to spill out at your feet like a sacrifice.

A silly, recurring fate. To fall upon the sword again in the hopes that it won’t be fleeting, I sign over my soul with little remorse and no recompense without a second thought. It’s a gamble and a costly one, but you are worthy. Because even if you were to break my foolish heart, I suspect I’d pan for the gold of your presence in my life long after you’d gone.

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