That moment I let go of your splendor of a hand, which I despairingly regret, I fell into quicksand; a quicksand that pulls me in deeper as I struggle to get out to reach for you again, and the only pleasure I get is watching my almost-hopeless demise firsthand. It's rather quite funny, though; the way I long for your fingertips to rejuvenate my face as mine had already dived into the plenitude of wet sand, for your hair to seize me as my nose caught hold of its heavenly scent as mine lay damp from the sweat of struggle, for your arms to embrace me in my triumph and in my(this) despair, as well, as mine arms have not the ability to embrace you in return. Call it
'putting you in a pedestal' all you want but that was never how I deemed to call it. I never put people I devote my flawed self to on a pedestal. What I'd rather (metaphorically) do is I tell every person I stumble upon about how you make me smile, laugh, live, grieve, frown, love. Hold my imperfect hand with the perfect yours... because now it is only your hand I shall hold onto to escape the quicksand~
