Fine

I haven't yet decided

Wether I want you 

To read this or

Not. I see you (no)

Matter what my optic

Nerves are processing. 

These Senses are useless 

For anything else. Fine 

Details the lines of your bones

In your perfect face shadowy

Outlines hide your back 

In that white T-shirt. The length 

Of your contrasted eyelashes 

Against the whites of your honestly

Lying eyes the sandpaper scratch

Your stubble tickling my

Neck the heat of your pillowy 

Lips sending tidal wave

Sweetness to every cell arching 

My back to meet your hips we 

Belonged tangled up 

Tangled up

In knots now my stomach

I ingested your venom your

Pattern so intricate 

and beautiful that 

I had to see it up close. Closer.

The closest I could get now 

Nausea now nothing now I'm 

Not sure if I should send this or

Let you believe 

that I've just died.