Stay.

Is it funny?
Is it funny
to see me babbling and bumbling,
bouncing back and forth
between what is right and what isn't?
I hope you don't think
that these dark illusion
set off by the flames in your eyes
are the results of a chemical reaction
love being the biological catalyst
to fuel my emotion,
and I really hope
you aren't plotting the graph
of the unlikelihood of me
intertwining my fingers with yours.
The plot of the story is never resolved,
and your jagged black line ends
at 0.00-- my affection for the you
you have become.
And I want to sleep with you,
not have sex, like our generation does
so easily...
but sleep,
with your strong arms wrapped around
the dents at my sides
your index finger slowly creeping
across every stair step of my spine.

The chemical reaction for you and me
is thinly defined by
your love for me and my lust for you.
I dream about falling,
fast and hard,
into, under, and deeply through
love with you.
When your hand grabs my waist,
and my hair falls in my face,
the thing I remember most is the warm prickle
of your breath kidnapping my heart
from the back of my neck.
And honestly, I'm probably nothing
but a big excuse for you
to have someone to call “yours”.
After all, I am yours,
but i'm not chained to you like a prisoner-
my hand is held and guided,
but my freedom to leave you
overrides my temptation
to stay.