asexualdex:

misbird:

asexualdex:

headcanon that nursey gets one of his poems published in some pretty prestigious paper or something and everyone gathers in the haus to read it and it’s just full of autumn metaphors and anger and longing for someone unattainable. it’s a really fantastic piece of poetry and everyone says so, dex even compliments it and says “wow, you must really like this person”

and you know as soon as nursey and dex leave holster kinda sits there blankly and is like “everyone knows that poem was about dex, right?” and everyone responds like “oh, yeah duh”

Hey @asexualdex I am so sorry here I am again defiling your wonderful headcanon. Anyway I kinda wrote a poem? I ended up combining it with that headcanon floating about with Nursey writing kids books so it is more like, simple, or less modernist (I just feel like Nursey would like modernist poetry. And Woolf. He would love her.) So, again sorry, but here? Pining Nursey poetry?

A Moth

In an autumn’s evening candle light
A love soaked wick burns oh so bright.
And a moth whose heart caries a life dimmed torch
Falls and gets close not caring if his wings get scorched.
Who knows if the light loves him? The moth doesn’t care.
Instead in his own language his soul he lays bare.
He flits, he flutters, he climbs and he dives,
Not knowing he helps his love to thrive.

Life is not perfect, love’s hard to get right,
And even a moth and his light will occasionally fight.
A to hard flap of his wings when they bicker
And his love light will flicker,
A big whoosh from the flame
And a new mark the moth will gain.
But talking after is important and they do that too,
With words like “I’m sorry, you okay?” and “Yes what about you?”

This makes it seem so simple, this earthly plight.
But the moth is no moth, and the light is no light.
And this story is a story and real life is real life.
And on the road to love danger is rife.
So here on a page no longer bare
Is a man not a moth asking his light to let him care.
Let him watch your flame quiver, watch it grow, watch it burn.
Let him choose to scorch his wings when it’s his turn.
For your fire is lovely, ‘tis a fact he knows to be true,
But a moth doesn’t expect a flame to love him like he loves you.

oh my goodness, this is beautiful

wow thank you so much. this is a lovely addition to my post 

oh wow