writingsforwinter:

no, i am not in love with you;

i am in love with the pure idea of you.

that every knob of your spine

leads to another room like a staircase,

that your lungs beat like raven wings

when you smoke.

i am in love with you, standing there

telling me not to go.

and in some twisted way,

i am in love with the idea of leaving you.