my beautiful lover, he’s a complicated mess:
of hidden muscles and sinews that pull the world’s weight;
and a skin so smooth his tears roll off it like pearls over marble;
my quiet lover, he’s a self-made mystery:
of destroyed family portraits and broken glass,
i can hear the crunching sound everytime he clenches his gloved hands
my broken lover, he’s a system of failing organs and collapsing worlds:
of purple galaxies that look a lot like bruises, his father’s beliefs printed on his back like the rawest, reddest form of education
of heirlooms that must be kept in secret and eyes like polished serpentine
but my lover walks like a general and thinks like a king;
ambition shining in those bright green pools like jewels.
and i’ll admit: it only took me an eternity
to realize i was in love with a tragedy
boys like him are made of wounds and secrets / warner
He pulls himself up onto the roof and walks over to me, so steadily. Calm, like there’s nothing in the world we’d planned to do today but to stand here, together, looking out over a field of dead bodies and happy children.
“Aaron,” I whisper.
He pulls me into his arms.
And I fall.
Every bone, every muscle, every nerve in my body comes undone at his touch and I cling to him, holding on for dear life.
“You know,” he whispers, his lips at my ear, “the whole world will be coming for us now.”
“His hands are holding my cheeks, and he pulls back just to look me in the eye and his chest is heaving and he says, “I think,” he says, “my heart is going to explode,” and I wish, more than ever, that I knew how to capture moments like these and revisit them forever.
“And I’ve fallen. So hard. I’ve hit the ground. Gone right through it. Never in my life have I felt this. Nothing like this. I’ve felt shame and cowardice, weakness and strength. I’ve known terror and indifference, self-hate and general disgust. I’ve seen things that cannot be unseen. And yet I’ve known nothing like this terrible, horrible, paralyzing feeling. I feel crippled. Desperate and out of control. And it keeps getting worse. Every day I feel sick. Empty and somehow aching. Love is a heartless bastard.”
favorite book couples: [2/?] warner and juliette | shatter me
“I want to know where to touch you,” he says. “I want to know how to touch you. I want to know how to convince you to design a smile just for me.” I feel his chest rising, falling, up and down and up and down and “Yes,” he says. “I do want to be your friend.” He says “I want to be your best friend in the entire world.”
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe.
“I want so many things,” he whispers. “I want your mind. Your strength. I want to be worth your time.” His fingers graze the hem of my top and he says “I want this up.” He tugs on the waist of my pants and says “I want these down.” He touches the tips of his fingers to the sides of my body and says, “I want to feel your skin on fire. I want to feel your heart racing next to mine and I want to know it’s racing because of me, because you want me. Because you never,” he says, he breathes, “never want me to stop. I want every second. Every inch of you. I want all of it.”
And I drop dead, all over the floor.
I can’t understand why I can still hear him speaking because I’m dead, I’m already dead, I’ve died over and over and over again.
He swallows, hard, his chest heaving, his words a breathless, shaky whisper when he says “I’m so— I’m so desperately in love with you—”