Emerald Grip

The bite in your emerald mercy gives me an unprecedented currency of hope. And I don’t even like hope. It’s like stale pottery. It’s like trying to decline aging. 

The grip of urgency is at my numb fingertips. Just to pull myself closer to hear my breath smatter up against the brick wall I’ve banged my head upon for too long. 

Sense cannot be knocked into you like that. I promise. 

You whisper icicle thoughts that melt and drop deep into the caverns of my chambers. I don’t intend to lose myself looking for them. I have already lost myself with you time and time again.

But why the curious in what my heart pulls me towards? It’s me. Confusion can be handled wrapped in soft egg white fabric, and your emerald of reach is beautiful. 

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