And the kiss; the kiss feels majestic when it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t feel as good as it is to Richard. But it does, and it’s beautiful and it burns. It burns the way the sun burns its way through a forest, it burns the way the sun burned Icarus’ wings. The kiss burns, and it melts him, and he knows it’s dangerous but it’s so wonderful that he can’t—couldn’t—wouldn’t stop.
me when i think i'm poetic













