It’s the kind of love I’m afraid to believe in.

Where she is a wisp of smoke lingering along my lips, and if I say how I feel out loud, just the force of my breath will make her vanish, and disperse into an atmosphere I can’t breathe any more. As if acknowledging the truth will cause it to appear before the thirsty desert dweller, an oasis of cool water to drown burnt skin, only to have it fall through his fingers like the sand he’s been trapped in for so long, he forgets how refreshing it is to a parched throat. 

But when I draw her in and hold my breath, I realise that I wandered off on my own, and turned my back on anything that I was bound to. Ties that soon became the noose tightening around my neck, but every time I looked up I only saw my own hands. I went to a torturous safe haven, where nothing could reach me, but I was stuck talking to myself in endless loops of nothingness and rhetoric. I realise that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to not be alone, and how twisted inside out I’ve turned myself.

It’s always been easy for me to deny myself good things, but I don’t want to now. 

(Source: mister-selfdestruct)