Purposefully Untitled

When I try to write about you it never comes out poetically.
It always just spills out in a huge emotional blob.
Waterfall even.
Hoover freakin dam.
Because once I start, there's no stopping.
I wish I could tell you all that comes to my mind without losing it.
I wish you would tell me what I want to hear, and end my suffering.
Once and for all.
I can see the possibility of perfection, if we just let go of inhibition, and acquiesce to intuition.
See cause in my tummy, where there used to be butterflies, now reside mature fantasies, distant memories, lovely tendencies, and that little bit of jealousy.
This scares me.
I don't get jealous.
I make them get jealous.
I never knew I could be so protective of someone who needs virtually no protection.
But then again maybe you do.
You said you needed me.
I believe you because thats the easiest thing to do.
It also seems to be the only thing I can do.
For some reason I can't wrap my mind around the fact that you would ever intentionally hurt me.
I love the way that feels.
I feel like I could get lost with you.
I could lose myself to you.
In you.
For you.
Around you.
Within you.
I don't know what I'm saying, and I don't know how it sounds.
I feel like I'm talking in circles.
Around and Around I go.
But there's no stopping it.
Endless and repetitive merry-go-round.
I'm spinning.
I'm dizzy.
I'm yours.