what matters

what I believe on cold mornings,
what I know to be true,
are the warm stripes
left on my skin by your grasping hand,
the stirrings of your breath
on the fuzz of my cheek,
or the tickle of your curls in my nose,
the heat of my belly
pressed into the small of your back —

the only true things that matter

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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