I can feel us falling back in love again.
or is that just me?
how many times are we going to do this? hate each other, and then fall back in love with each other all over again. It’s because every time we part, we grow.
about each other, about ourselves.
and each time i fall in love with a different part of you.
I still can’t put into words what it is I love about you.
that’s a lie
because I can tell you the small things that make me love you. The things you would only know, the things I hope you love about me too.
I love that every time I listen to that song now, my mind paints pictures of you from the chords and lyrics.
it paints pictures of the memories. strokes of pale skin and coloured lights and of rooftops and distant red towers.
of 4am secrets.
I love that I am jealous of watching butter melt in a pan because I wish it were that easy for me to melt into you.
I love that I want every sentence that leaves my mouth to be good enough for you.
I love that you know about books and films and art and history and what turns me on and what turns me off and what it means when I say certain words and the way I say certain words and that you know what I don’t like about myself, but you love it anyway.
I love that you let me make socially unacceptable jokes and pretend that you think I mean what I am saying to annoy me.
I love that you fit into my life in every single way. I love that I know you could sit at my kitchen table with my parents and blow them away and I would sit there and hold your thigh and feel proud. that my trips to galleries and libraries would have your hand slipping in mine as we get lost in the past.
I love you for asking me to stay that night. I love you for sending that text at 11:12 am on the 5th july.
I love you for letting the words I love you leave your mouth first. I love how you can make me feel okay even if the world was burning down around us. even if there were riots and houses were burning to the ground, all I would want is to be hidden. resting on your chest, counting the times my head rose and fell.
the thought of you meeting the next me makes my stomach fold, like the instructions tell you in a cook book when you are making a cake. it makes the bottom of my stomach bubble with acid and erodes the very core.
does our song play in your head when you meet her?
does the word love form a new meaning when she looks back at you in the same way.
cause, I’m your first, but you don’t want me to be your last.
I don’t need to tell you how okay we would be.
how much I could love you. how loved you could be.
topic on |