8.52 p.m
I am used to demons that sing me wonderful lullabies but burn holes in my skin when their hands rest on my body, but your touch is heavenly. Your hands feel like they could have helped some kind of god build the universe. Those hands of yours, they can make flowers grow right under my eyes and I don't even have to cry to make them pretty. You're an architect of beautiful things and I'm learning not to feel love in such a tragic way. I don't feed myself on bitter words that taste like vodka but burn like poison anymore, and I water all my plants now. You help me hold myself together and maybe that is the reason why every poem I write is an ode to your hands.
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