Euphoria

If I had the stamina to spend every day writing about how bad you make my stomach ache for more of you, I would. But I'm lazy so I can't. I just spend the times when the ache in my stomach becomes too much too bare writing in hopes maybe one day I can show you these thoughts written down. Maybe. Because showing you my writing would be like showing you my insides, like my rib cage had been split and properly undone. Inside of me is you, though, full of life and beauty and wonder. All that would spill out of me would be butterflies, I believe.

You make my head ooze static, so when I think of you, your image drowns out the music playing. In my ears I only hear love. But the funny thing is, that isn't something you can hear. Maybe you just make me insane.

Every nerve in my body shouldn't shake knowing someone's in love with me. I think they shake because I'm in love with somebody who loves me back.

This is what drugs do to you. To me, all I feel is euphoria. Like you're in me, around me, swallowing me completely in a whole mess of you that I don't want to be found in and dragged out of. I can feel everything where I am in your love, and I never want to leave.

It's like the air is your affection and I'm inhaling all of it and holding it in my lungs, as if exhaling isn't an option. I'm taking all I can get, keeping the butterflies inside of me alive. They live off of your love too. Everything I am does.