No Exceptions.

There are two doors between us but there is nothing that can bring me down from a late night high of love's realization: sentiments broken into tiny pieces. I'm (not) sorry if that was too god of an analogy. Summer's ship sailed when the sticky night lost its breath and even though its now pale mid-November things are the same as they ever were: sleeping alone is colder than not by several orders of magnitude and I still don't have any words to describe things like the transubstantiation that occurs when you trace my lips with your fingers and I am still naive enough to believe that demonstrative love can rescuitate even the most fractured orphans.