I was reminiscing all those nights when your vulnerability touched me more than the warmth of your skin. You know the feeling when you know all you could possibly do to someone is damage them in the end, yet all they want to do, is to cling on to you with all their love and you can't let go, because you love them too? Flesh is the tool of the weak, so you can't see us bind this love of ours by holding hands in public places. It's 11:11 and I'm in his bed torn between holding on or letting go. He has a peaceful place in his soul and a restless home in his heart and I find myself lost in his array of words that just keep calling me home. He hates the sunsets, but I tell them that the trees never miss it, so shouldn't we. He has a name for this chaos of desire and wishful thinking, but I have somewhere else to be and we'll probably make a mess of everything in the process, but we aren't remorseful cause we are only growing. In the end, we all become stories. Here we are, going nowhere with all this love, so writing about it.