Sometimes I think about leaving you for no real reason other than my palms want to feel the rumble of the earth. It is a terrifying, sharp sort of desire, as if I could stab the spine of us with an ice pick.
My heart wants to feel that there is more. I don’t know why it is discontent, but it’s saying it’s sure there is more. I hear it late at night when I wake myself up trying to pry myself from your arms, reaching towards the window.
When you kiss my neck, I close my eyes against the feel of you. I take myself to a place colder than the softness of your lips. This is where the sky trembles over us.