He writes in cursive,
You can smell the burned paper
Of previous drafts,
The feelings are too large
To put into words
But his tenacity
Your beauty
Drives
Him to try
To say I love you
Would be pointing to a map
And expecting it to
Speak of the first kiss
The night on clean sheets
The worshipful caresses
And how the walls
Absorbed your cries
But he says it
Over
And
Over
Your beauty makes a monster
Of him
And he would tear apart
Your enemies
If he could show you
The same courtesy
A passion so enormous
That the possibility
Thrills you that
Where it unleashed
You might not
Survive it
Jesus.
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I tend to resemble Buddha
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Very funny.
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