there's rain on the streets, wind in the trees and in the chimes on my porch. out the window everything is darker than usual, wet roads black tarmac in the orange street light. inside i can feel the draft from the door that hangs just slightly open, letting in the scent of rain. and you're on my mind again. the thread that ties me to you is seven hundred and eighty eight kilometers long and taut as the skin stretched across your collarbones as you run and i'm standing still, waiting. at night i contemplate cutting it just to set you free from my misery and expectations but it isn't worth the snap-back whiplash or the smack in the face. instead i'd rather tug you closer, curl up in you with my head tucked against your neck so maybe then you could feel me smiling instead of just reading about it. there are dragonflies in my stomach vibrating just for you and i can't believe i feel this way when i'm not even familiar with the smell of you or the sound of your voice, i only know the way your words taste in my mouth and how they roll over my skin and are absorbed - like dew, like raindrops. if you are a storm, i want to stand in the center because it doesn't get better than tempestuous winds or the fact that you tear me apart only to reconstruct me later an entirely new way. i want to be lacerated by this, destroyed and bled dry until there is just enough left of me that you can breathe me back to life with a kiss. so it's sweet but it's torment, pastel colours hiding a core the shade of bruises and i suppose this will just scare you but i can't ignore the way it hurts so beautifully. i'm a masochist, can't get enough of this and when i say i like it rough, i mean my heart likes it too. just let me fall into you.