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A man with careful words moving at the pace of old forests. Warmth is a kind of language Spoken underneath black leather jackets With frozen hands on his ribcage. Trembling, like a struck match As you pull my knees apart. The fire is already lit. Slow-burning for months Beneath stage lights and long, lingering looks.…
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I almost told you I loved you. I don’t think I really do. I love the excitement of you.
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The textbook answer is:I’m fine, and it’s fine.You can’t make someone love you.I know.I never said I could.
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It’s an empty feeling,having no one left to disappoint,or to disappoint me.
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