In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.
In my dreams you are a gentle thing, easily crumpled and needing to be talked smooth. My mouth curling around your psyche like a mother’s.
But awake, when you do give me yourself, you feel like a root I’ve somehow pulled up—not quite wooden, not quite rough, and the grit hums a dirt-song between my meticulous teeth.
my eyebrows are the source of all my power