Sticky

In what world do I find you in the light of day, rather than in the shadows?

I will tell you.

You are past the darkness, on the other side of it in another kind of wellspring,

like the light at the end of a tunnel I may never see the other side of.

Thoughts of your skin gracing mine pulls me through the bound paper resting in my hands.

The characters I explore are nothing like you,

but you and I are replaced in the pages of the romantic tales I have consumed anyways.

In the mirror is a reflection of everything just as it normally is,

but more so, it is a portal to the storylines that our senses react willingly too.

Your lips are honey, sweet and sticky,

I am unable to let go of the unforgettable taste of how

they left my skin cold from where you had touched them just moments before.

I cannot stand the warmth escaping me, so I am obligated to come back for more.

It's irritating.

Because I don't even like honey, but for some reason,

in my coffee mixed with the heart I pour into my cup

it tastes just right.