"Where a bookshelf goes or a throw rug, how you shape any common space and the language you make out of looks and names. All the motions of ordinary love."

Bastille Day away from home... and maybe the closest to home I've ever been.

It's 10:18. You are asleep. My leg is on your legs and I watch your chest slowly moving up and down as you breath. 

Spasm. 

I smile.

I love them too.

Up the stairs are the feelings, the fears and promises. Down the stairs are the words I've never shown anyone. Down the stairs is me can't quite believing I was showing him this part of me. Saying things and writing things and feeling things in bright colours. And running into an incredible joy but fear of a terrible sadness at high speed. 

He got those big sad blue eyes and I nearly drown into my sorrys. Sorry I showed you that much of me in one night -but my soul collapsed with yours even harder tonight-, sorry the words are not good enough -how could they. Sorry for everything wrong I would ever say or do. Sorry I made a mess of your life. Sorry I'm so sad all the time. Sorry those girls from the past hurt you. Sorry I need to hold your hand that much.

Those words are a mess.

They are all over the place, running around those walls and my head and ribcage.

10:24. It's Tuesday. This tiny room is full of him and me and he's breathing quietly. Friends are talking outside. He makes every place we go to feel like home. My two legs are now on his legs. I think of home, of those big sad blue eyes and his peculiar way of smiling at me. Maybe this is home.

He has the cosmos in his soul. I might burn.