The parts of me I have left, the parts that I had so carefully placed in a safe locked box are starting to seep under the folds of the edges and lace themselves around your face unknowingly.
My fingers find themselves encapsulated around your cheeks, remembering the curves and fragments of your skin.
They curl, and twist. They bend and flip against the inside of my chest; trying to release the start of a need to keep my lips pressed against yours constantly. To feel the way volts of electricity pulse on my bottom lip, or how it takes half of me to pull away when I know I should. I try to hide them behind my eyes, but you see the way sparks bounce as they knock on the backs of my pupils trying to be set free.
The parts of me I have left, are starting to want the parts of you that nobody else has touched. The parts nobody else has seen because they have not taken the time to experience the capacity of love your heart gives out, or needs to receive. The parts of you that have been too good for people to see. Or to touch. To experience. The parts of yourself you yourself keep in a safe locked box.
The parts of me I have left, the tired yet determined fragments of my being that remain, want you.
The parts of me, want the parts of you.
About the Creator
Beca Harris
Hey there, I mainly write prose in the note section of my phone, that I hope someday I can publish.
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