“Darling, I don’t want you; I’ve got no place for you; I only want what you give. I don’t want the whole of anyone…. What you want is the whole of me-isn’t it, isn’t it?-and the whole of me isn’t there for anybody. In that full sense you want me I don’t exist.”
we stumble over our spines, trip over our vowels, and collapse into your arms.
Our hearts are open books, Russian novels containing fifty pages on the way your voice drifts across the telephone wires each night. Our hearts are first drafts, unedited verses about each and every person we have ever loved: the stranger on the subway, the girl who gave us a balloon, the boy who stole our virginity but not our heart.
Women like me will love you from a distance of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed, we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible, and when we leave you will finally understand why storms are named after people."