My imagination doesn’t see us between the sheets. I have tip toed around the questions within while sipping on truth. I’m afraid to chug to it for it will consume me. I could drink your tears, fall for your disease, and get tangled up in your words for a lifetime. I could dance with your vulgarity, skeletons, and the dress you will never wear. I could scrape the lies from the bottom inside and toss them on the ground you walk on. You will never be a china doll that was never touched. In my disordered eyes I reach for the rawness you create. I wish I could feel it in my palms. Perhaps that wish floats like the paragraphs you write. I could shut my eyes and lose myself in your barely seen stars. I could crave for the intimacy that could last for twenty minutes but cherish the dynamic that we possess forever. I could walk into our electricity and you would bellow. You are worth the aftershocks. I can use the word love for once and feel it’s purity.Perhaps my imagination stretches out too far. I could visualize us making love but drinking coffee chuckling is photographed. There are no aches, no hunger, but just a whirlwind of appreciation and respect. I can’t tame your ghosts, erase the burns, and find the missing pieces. I can’t even see your canvas due to its width and length. I’m terrified to lose something perfect. I love our vibrations. I love the flow of our burning river. I love your fragments. I love your chocolate vocabulary. I love how it taste in my mouth. Nobody pushes my imagination like you do. Nobody reaches for me with their bare hands, except you.