I want it all.

And your happiness reflects onto me, and your sadness too. But your happiness is a constant, no matter how fake, and your sadness is a constant that only I can seem to see. So we're always melancholy but we never use our words. How strange it is to be part of something that doesn't feel the need to open their mouths to verbalize the anguish. How strange it is to be.
Your hands are too big for mine. Your arms. Your legs. Your heart. I want it all, I want to eat all of your sadness and capture the anger you carry on your strong shoulders, and kill it. I want our last thoughts to always be of each other. I want you to be free like the birds and wild like the salmon in the sea.