you, you, are perfectly out of reach.
and i like that.
i like a lot of things and none of the things i like are likeable. the book on my night stand, which is barely even there at night, is full of bubbled post-it's that resemble what speech looks like in cartoons or comics. it is highlighted and thick and full. it is brimming with. i reach out and stretch and lengthen my body toward what. yours. mine. ours. it is trimmer, this body. it is full, this body. it is. it just is. the books on my shelf are there. they sit, collect dust and wait to be opened. i sometimes feel like people are like that too. we sit and wait on some shelf to be picked by the vague one and opened, cracked at the spine and loved dearly, only to be inevitably put back. they split you open at the center and everything is there. it is all right there. the ones that love you most read you again and again. we are waiting to be read. crack my spine, turn the edges of my pages and read my lines. my body is covered in lines. they are burned into your memory; you recite them to me with your eyes closed, puckered lips and hands on your chest.

you, oh you, are so perfectly out of reach.
and i like that.