this love is killing me so deeply, i could cry only to compensate for the emptiness — to romanticize how my outstretched arms reach for him, just to see his fingers woven with those of another, how the shadows bring whispers of the significance our compassion is to one another, though i wake to the blinding realization of my worth to him. some moments are easier than others; like the times we spend fantasizing travels and adventures to far off places we’ve never been, side by side. or the nights devoted to creating our own strawberry cheesecake, and drifting to sleep on the couch not long after consuming one too many slices, our limbs habitually entangled together as his head falls snugly into the curve of my neck. those little moments are like the anecdote i need to make it through a tough day, and knowing he is there to some extent is more satisfying than the tiny bruises along my skin from the ‘maybe we should stop’ kisses and fucks. i take all the blame for being weak in the knees in his regard, how saying no is worse than a forceful blow to the pulmonary cavity, for his strength and very being in every sense of its essence is simply breathtaking; so much so it is as if he has become the flickering candle in the darkest of corners of my skull, and the warmth melting the cold from my bones in the dead of my winter blues. the only dream i long for is the one where mauve peonies and soft pink roses surround our dearest friends and family; while he stands dressed in a sleek tuxedo, and i adorned in ivory lace, takes my hand as we vow to love and protect the gift of heart and soul we’ve been given, and seal that bond by pressing our lips upon each others. and i will wait for my wish to come true, despite this ache in my chest that welcomes this prolonged conventional death that comes with his absences.