He is gravity
And I am the apple aching towards the ruin of his pull
He witnesses the violence of my wanting—
As I build entire worlds between the push and pull of his name
I yearn to be something he reaches for
There is a quiet tragedy
in the way he effortlessly beckons me—
While he remains unmoved,
And I drown in devotion in his orbit
I want to be his lips
To taste every syllable that escapes from them
I want to be his eyes
To unlearn my world and see how it bends in his presence
I want to be his arms
To know the weight of holding everything he touches
I want to be his hands
To shape myself to his desires.
To feel what pleases him
I want to be his lungs
To empty and fill at his command
Until all that is left of me is him
But instead, I am here—
Drunk on a feeling that has no home,
hopelessly devoted,
shamefully obsessed
On my knees begging for a word,
A glance,
A fragment to obsess over
He owns my dreams
He haunts the edges of my every thought—
An agonising constant presence
That I cannot touch
Still, I live for him
My decisions are shaped in his shadow,
My choices made for approval
He never offers, never withholds—
Because he was never holding me at all
So, I crave to become
The very thing he desires—
To stop orbiting,
And finally, be
The apple that succumbed to gravity