love

You forget that it's well and capable until it apologizes for even the slightest glances. And you'll keep forgetting the things they say are in your head and head alone until it's cleaning the blood up for you. From you. Encouraging blankets to cover the doors that work as your sacrificing altar. You forget it breathes in the middle of you both until it's taking the assurance. You can fight a little longer. A little harder. Just needing patience. Just a bit more patience. Not giving up because you let it see, and despite the way your brain speaks, you still pry enough for them to know the wounds are there without needing to show. Love is well and capable, and i am being dished a bigger portion than i could ever deserve now.