Wanderer (1/2)

Gazing gourmlessly at the next pretty thing and Imagining what that feeling could be, would be in another World, the rush and the emotion, holding each for the first time and that nervous kiss, staying up late and waking up early, buzzing. My lover is a man of few words. He speaks to me about odd things, policies and people who are hardly that. My lover wears a stone face and speaks with a stone voice. My lover cries cold tears, my lover is so warm in the tummy. My lover has a crooked arm that he holds me at the end of. Hes changeable yet so consistent, he stays in one spot and I come to him, always. Forever. Ha. The next pretty thing awaits me and I know it wouldn't be hard. Isn't life a string of fleeting feelings, fleeting warmths within the abyss of feeling, within the abyss of myself, within the abyss of humanity? My lover left me wondering. Freezing up when I went gripping for his hand, freezing up when my lips met his face. 5/5, but words mean so little when your body screams outwards in the contrary. And then his hands met my waist and all felt right And then he was on top of me and all felt right.