He pushes me to the edge. I never feel too wild or too much. I know we won’t last because feral is in our blood. Every time I’m unsure, I focus on our messy, unlabeled love.
We ran wild with the salt in our skin and the wind tangling my hair. We didn’t make plans, we just showed up and let the night take us anywhere. When I want a storm, he makes one. When I want to run away, he always comes. He’s a caged soul like me; he is, right now, exactly what I need.
I don’t want to explain and I don’t want to behave. He takes my hand and we jumped into terrifying waves. He won’t let me get washed away. He doesn’t make me feel wrong for being this way. For not being able to contain my soul, for not being able to keep my thoughts quiet. He sees me and just knows. He pushes me and doesn’t want roots for home.
He will always be my wild runaway and I will be his messy haired escape. I didn’t want to talk, I didn’t want to cry, so he took my hand and let me drive.
He doesn’t twist the what-I-meants or tries to make someone wrong and someone right. He sees me when I’m wrong and when I’m right. He doesn’t condemn me for being filled with darkness and sometimes light.
The cosmos keep reminding us of our fate. The intertwines and those green eyes, all the signs from the stars keep me his, and him mine.