Die, fucking die.

The death of romance.
The death of conversations, of deep gazing, of day dreams, of hope and of mystery, of the sense of adventure. The death of poetry, the murder of that-picture-perfect-moment. The hopelessness of it all, the death of magic.
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Loving is good if it's not understood

I would’ve told you what Love is,but am sorry darlings, I am not qualified enough. 
Let me tell you what love is. It is a common noun; a word used to describe affection ranging over varied degrees. 

“Send me a picture after you’ve washed your hair, I can bet you smell lovely”
…
“Are they dry? Send me a picture after you’ve dried your hair”

He likes me so much that he cannot lust for me and whenever he does he looks at my face and an over powering affection takes over.

I lay naked in his arms and he smiles pulls my cheek, plays with my nose and hugs me.

I love him too. I love him, so I fight with him, so, I fight him. I have questions, questions ranging from a lover’s jealousy, to a lover’s might. He disappoints me. I cannot tempt his wrath, I cannot bring him to... 

He loves me, he does, I think. 

I would’ve told you what Love is, but sorry darlings I am not experienced enough.  

…

P.S. You can do much better than this bitch. 

I am no non-believer

There are our ‘gods’ naked, sitting/standing in filth. That is how we worship our ‘gods’. We upholster their names on crossroads making seemingly unnoticed roads have over the top names that no one uses. This is how we insult our ‘gods’. We worship our ‘gods’. We fight over our right to call them our own, we own our ‘gods’. Rising up at the smallest opportunity to accredit something smaller to our ‘gods’, this is how we remember our ‘gods’. Ill insult your ‘god’ to make my ‘god’ look mighty. This is how we abuse our ‘gods’. 

I have given up on your ‘gods’ and to keep him safe, I have given up on my God.