here ‍ ‍ ‍ comes ‍ ‍ ‍ the ‍ ‍ ‍ 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦

there is nothing poetic about being loved by me. akin to a rot that spreads, from the heart to the tips of my fingers, the soles of my feet. an all—consuming love, aching in its wake; and there is no place to put it.

⠀ ⠀" i'm getting a bit old " ⠀🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 ⠀🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 ⠀🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 ⠀🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 ⠀🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 ⠀🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 ⠀🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 ⠀

( GASP!!! purrr... puurrr.. kicking leg repeatedly )