I carve the doors open and walk the same floor I've been walking for these past weeks, days, moments of a million hours as I lay tangled with you. But I'm dreaming. It's only been one week, one single week with you.
I'm waiting slowly, drunk on the sensations of coffee. I'm drunk, I'm drunk, I'm totally drunk on you. I revel in your taste, the ghost sensations of your hands gliding over me, remembering the first time I felt I was yours with all the overdramatic flare of modified history. The natural progression of obedience for the king. You are my king, and now I belong to you.
I'm yours, I'm yours, I hope, I hope so. I hope that you know this, that you believe it with the same conviction I do. But still, I'm waiting, breathing the steam of bitter dreams in a third-rate cafe that's crowded with the memories of too many blind dates to count.
But I at least can trust this one, I can trust you, trust you. Trust you with everything I have.
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