for love is the breath

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.

 - Richard Siken

I have a love for passages that make me wish deeply that I knew the feelings that they are conveying. When words strike you so profoundly that you feel as though you've lived its story, but in reality you are so incredibly removed that afterwards you feel empty.

I find it strangely fulfilling.