he is the binding to my book.

he is a love story i haven't written yet. i'm quite sure of it. i look at him and see vows in the shape of flying doves searching for peace. i tell you, this man makes me want to make heaven wait.  glancing at him over the ripples of clouds and through the fog of early mornings. he is a love story i haven't written yet. i'm quite sure of it.  the only thing standing between us is an altar.  standing under God believing that love can be a divine gift to the belligerence of humanity.  i run wild with thoughts of him, like horses on green pastures carrying kings home to patient wives.  he is a love story i haven't written yet. i'm quite sure of it. kissing the nape of my neck and the curve of my collarbone. sometimes the most intimate things are the least discrete. i moan at the very thought of him, not from a pleasure but rather from a place of satisfaction.  it's a funny thing when you can take someone's spirit with you.  i take his to the store with me and i bring him into my warm showers.  he is a love story i haven't written yet. i'm quite sure of it.  balancing on his feet to keep from falling...mmm...it's supposed to be harder to fall when you're already lying down but physics and love never did get along. he is a love story i haven't written yet. i'm quite sure of it.