You lay with eyes closed, the bath too hot for normality and just right for the end of a day that pulls at you with fever pitch itching. It’s the space between your lips and the bridge of your nose that takes me. It’s possibly something to do with the way you walk, too. Two more minutes and I will fold in half, such is the effort it takes to hide from my absolute weakness for the crook of your neck. There is something in the way you say my name that is synonymous with everything I ached for, dripping with gentle ambitions. It is not that i see you as an answer, or a bandage ready to pull me together again, but that you are a catalyst for possibility. For dreaming of a wonderful maybe, and just the action of dreaming is delight in itself. I have been, since I can remember, itching to know more of people. To earn that much further, a sort of kick in the teeth when you mostly find that people are not what you thought and the who they are is like pins through your comfort. I do not want to build for myself the framework to an ideal life that will not happen, but I do ripple with happiness to consider the possibilities, as the light of who we are right now is too bright for shadows to thrive. I try to take the way you look at me and bend it to words, a momentary photograph to run my index finger across so many times the ink dissipates.