DEAR JIMIN,
Maybe the truth is in your hands, hidden between every crack — every crevice. The canyons that expanded across the purlieus of your palm eroded as the days went on. Flesh that was once as rough as the pebbles that scraped your knees have metamorphosed into the velveteen raiment that currently swallows you whole.
Isn't that the sweater I got you for your birthday?
Three years ago, was it?
I don't recall.
It looks lovely on you.
Everything is lovely when it has to do with you.
Because you, Park Jimin, are nauseatingly lovely.
(Lovely, lovely, lovely.)
And I, Kim Taehyung, am so far gone.
(Gone, gone, gone.)
Those are just a couple of the things I've come to accept in the short time that I've been blessed enough to call you mine.
As the alabaster garment rimmed in linens of ruby and navy indicates, you are mine.
But, in all honesty, I would much rather be yours.
Your hands clutch the inside of the sweater's sleeves — why won't they hold onto me?
Do you not like me? Are you embarrassed by me? I don't understand, I-
I'm over exaggerating.
It's nothing.
You're just tired.
It's one in the morning — I'm quite jaded too.
We should go to bed.
Then you can embrace me there; lave me in your crepuscular scent; drape your fingers along the soft junction of my hips.
Until the first flush of morning sun shimmers on our estival-tanned skins.
Please hold me.
Your hands are so warm, so calming.
Early morning epiphany:
I always needed you.
But did you ever really need me?
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤLove,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTAEHYUNG
