writingsforwinter:

It’s so hot that when our skin sticks together, even our sweat

starts sweating. When I lived in New York and you lived

in Georgia, you mailed me love notes in the form of used condoms,

but only ones that had been used when you were with me.

When I ask you if I can put kept living on my job application

because it’s a daily career, you offer to be my reference.

Sometimes I’m rendered speechless by breathing.

If exhaling were the only thing I had to do

for the rest of my life, I think I would quit.

You tell me tonight in bed that if suicidal tendencies

were sexy, my hotness

would be off the charts. But see, love isn’t

talking someone down from the ledge;

it’s being willing to climb up there with them.