sometimes i get a little stressed out because i’m living in a part of history that’ll one day be talked about and discussed and papers written and what am i doing? what have i done? laundry, barely
it’s autumn now, and the tips
of my fingers are redder than leaves.
I gave you my gloves, but it’s okay,
your hand is warming mine faster.
your eyes match the stormy sky
but are softer; I drown in them.
the steam from our hot coffee
mixes with our clouds of breath, and
your book pages are yellowed and old
and crinkle when you turn them.
you hide in my old green sweater’s bulk-
it looks better on you than it did on me.
when I kiss your cheek you blink,
smile lazily, flip another page.
you can stay for hours- I know you.
so I will too, busy myself with
poetry about your eyes and your hands
and your book and my sweater
and autumn.
All The Things We Could Do, If I Could Just Say ‘I Love You’ || m.l. (via motherseas)
