physical love is his thing.

touching is one of the things he loves. whenever, wherever, whatever, fever, and forever. walking. our shoulders touching. sitting. his head on your shoulder. sleeping. your fingers through his hair. hug? he's already running to give you one.

you're all the gentle things in life. like that one pillow in a ton in your home. our spooning moments. our shared big sweaters to sleep in. you're all the safe things in life. like a hand to hold. and a shoulder to lean on. a hug after a bad race. his blanket in tight schedule. you're all the reasons to take a chance, like when things seem out of reach, and a place seems so far away.

but what was he supposed to do if you start drifting away. or once he starts questioning the idea of us. you. your reasons. your actions. the point of all this? what's there left undone? when did it all become so tasteless, so grey? where had we gone wrong for us to wilt?

he had let himself dangle on the leash of his own longing when he only wants to be the sun for you. accusations. tears. blames. your lips touched his skin. and now he's covered by you. you're all over him. but they have gone so, so bitter, my love.

anniversary cake. 15th of july. he just can't take it anymore and let go. the platter clatters. the cake splats. dead candles all over. eyes locked on yours. unhappiness on our faces. "get out." he mumbles.