Sometimes I wish I were loved the way I love: literary—over-dramatic, melancholy, and obsessive.
Sometimes I wish I were seen the way I behold: poetry—the first time I noticed you it felt like spring in December, and your smile was like daffodils blooming in March.
Sometimes I wish I were held the way I hold: tragic—loathe to part because, darling, touching you is bitterly never enough.


















