You’re the first thing on my mind when I wake and the last thing on my mind when I sleep. Terrible, that sounds terrible and cliche and perhaps all those awful, silly romantic things that you hate so much. You have unadulterated passion for hate, but you pretend to be optimistic, yet the only the thing you are openly pessimistic about is us. I want to write you novels about how I could make you writhe and squirm and twist beneath my fingertips; I want to show you the sun and how cold it will feel the morning after my lips have run their course along the hallows of your neck because nothing will ever compare to my warmth. I want to wrap my arms around your frame and pull you close with hushed murmurs, promises of better times, when we both know that it will never get better than this. So raw, so real, so ridiculously made for each other but you refuse to acknowledge it. I will expose you to depths unheard of, unseen by your virgin-like eyes that have never experienced anything but the throes of lust without love. Love sounds like such a terrible thing to you, but you have no idea the ecstasy it could create. If only, I whisper into your ear, but not at all like you want to hear it. Never could my words, any whispers, any small gesture or grace of my touch change your mind. I wonder to myself, how is it possible for one person to love another so much? Why would anyone want to succumb to insanity so easily? I’m here to be a mess of contradictions, and the first is the irony that I would gladly take any form of insanity if it meant being by your side. But most of all, without the complex feelings and the thousand-word essays and sixty-five posts dedicated to you, it comes down to one simple phrase: I miss you.
I adore everything you write. js. P.S. I desire James Franco too. Always.
Reblogged from adrianalan-deactivated20110506 with 1 note
