Words.

Breathing in, inhale. Sharp, out of breath.  Weaving your stories straight into my soul. A path you have carved out of words and statements. Never ending sentences wrapped around my empty skull, enthralled and lost. How beautiful words can be when drowned in affection. How beautiful words can be if you cannot see.

Your words possess the ability to send shivers to the ends of my depth, to ignite and set me on fire. I continue to drink and douse myself in your fuel and with this, drunk from the fumes and blind from the smoke I begin to lose myself in you. But I have warned you, do not create a fire with words that you cannot take back when they become merely ashes.

In a room where the walls know all our secrets, I cannot breathe as you ever so gently trace your words onto my skin, quivering with familiarity I succumb knowing I will be able to wash your words off my body once you leave, but wishfully thinking that when you come back you will make your words more permanent on me.

You are mine as I am yours, your words envelope me, carry me to unknown heights. But I cannot convert feelings into words as beautifully as you do. I cannot promise you eternity nor can I even promise you tomorrow. Disconnect. The words that once provided me warmth now cut through me like shards of ice. You attempt to force the words out of me, but I am stubborn. I do not speak and you do not listen to my silence. You go and seek words from others, words that you know I cannot feed you with.  But I had warned you, do not create a fire in me that neither of us can stop.

So I burn and you are engulfed. You cannot breathe the same air as I do, your words cannot contain the fire. I burn brighter and in my knowing state, I push you further to unreachable lengths. You can no longer take the heat and you leave again, permanently more so. And I beg you to return and feel the burn, I beg you to bask in the heat, I beg you to love terrible things. But just like the ones before you and the ones that will come after, your words have now turned into ashes, remnants of a burnt library. You do not stay to rewrite your stories on my back and my arms, to whisper your words into my ear. You do not even leave behind words that I can hold on to late at night when my own silence is too deafening, you leave with my silence, the one I taught you.