You told me not to trust you.

I don't.

But then you see me pulling away and you ask me to do the
exact opposite.

Confusing.

I guess I should have listened to you the first time. Cause I ended
up staying around long enough to have figured out- what you meant by
such an ominous thing.

Rightfully ominous.

I give up.

Because now I think of you and there's a
weight on my shoulders and on my chest.  My breathing
turns shallow. Nothing at all pleasant or exciting.

Just exhausting.

But every once and a while you make me smile
and I forget how much you weight on my soul.

I realize the enormity of the simple gesture of looking into your eyes
because you see right to the crux of me.
And it's frightening.
Unbelievably frightening.

But this moment is laden with loosening liquid and unvoiced desire
that I were someone else on your couch.
Not this bumbling short haired girl that wishes you
hadn't looked at her like that in the first place.

However, this fleeting instance is undeniably lovely- because you actually see me and
that brings tears to my eyes. But I know when sunlight streams
in on our intertwine bodies- our words will become
stilted and littered with subtext. Unfortunately- what does stay the same
is what you say to me in the morning- just like the last time we'd shared something beautiful.

'I don't want to hurt you.'

Fuck, does it hurt- just a little bit more then it did the first time you said that to me.

I thought you cowardly- but I looked at myself and could say no more.

"What If's" are bullshit.

It would be a whirl wind of something new and exciting if we were to let go of the infallible paranoia of hurting one of another. It would be... different. But is it really worth it? You've already pulled out a band aid for what could have been and she's quirky and full of life... Beautiful. As for me, well, my medication is in the form of scratch marks and love bites I don't normally like marring my skin- from others. Is it bad that I adore them now- because it's not something you'd do? Mark's you wouldn't leave, because you know I hate them- because you were peculiar about what I liked and didn't (even though you are a biter).  Your track record says to be cautious but mine says to slow the fuck down. I hate having something so fucking tempting right under my nose, five days a week. I know if I partake then I will burn my tongue, but I know I'll still eat. And it'll hurt so fucking good. But would it be worth it?

I know it is not.

 But I wish it was.

Fuck

She smiles despite herself because this girl before her, eyes shining, dainty fingers running through long hair- mooning over him, is fucking wonderful. She`s beautiful, full of life, and someone who isn`t her. And that`s when she realizes that he`s truly fucking sloppy. And what`s worst, is that he knows he is.

But she still can`t hate him.

Will you let me discover you and figure out your quirks? Will you be able to share your woes if at all to at least have voiced them to someone like me? Maybe it isn't me who you'll let in but whoever it is I hope she'll  treasure it.

Most- if one were to measure.

She loves him most when he loses his laid-back composure... mostly because it gives way to his eccentricities that are carefully tucked behind crooked smiles and charismatic grins.

She loves him most when he 's  fatigued from a days work but is unable to wipe the deliriously faint smile of joy off his lips. The same smile that he presses to her forehead before bed.

She loves him most when his anger gets the most of him and he's too far gone to even understand it all but he anchors onto her.

She loves him most when his eyes are filled to the brim in consternation and he knows not what to do. So he slips between the sheets in silence- retreating into himself and turns his back to her.

Oh, she loves him alright but she knows to give him a certain level of space despite the proximity of their limbs. She also knows, that sometime in the evening she'll find her way pressed into his back with her hand resting on his stomach.

Oh, damn, does she love him.