Maybe you go to sleep and think how this would be better if I was prettier and more interesting. And I go to sleep and think how this would be better if you’d share the same feelings that I do.
Sometimes it seems like I don’t expect anything from you; it’s almost selfish how willingly I give into you. Sometimes I look at your smile and wonder how the stars can manage to look at the sun all the time (for millions of years!). Maybe they’re blinded to the point of blissful oblivion. That’s how I feel.
I think that the birthday present that I am putting together for you is stupid. I think I sound stupid when I talk about you to my friends. I think its stupid how much I look forward to our conversations everyday. As I get dressed, I think that I never want to like anyone ever again.
It’s so strange how a boy with rough, calloused hands and a wicked smile could make you wish you were sweeter and gentler. Optimistic. Better.
I listen to you talk, always. I’m your supportive friend. I never really divulge in any stories of mine because I fear that one day you will leave and take all my words with you.
You talk about your past relationships. You tell me about girls who want to fuck you, your goals and aspirations and your favorite movies. It’s not much, but I find myself basking in all these details all week long.
I know that I’m too tense and probably not as soft or light as all your girls from before, but sometimes I like to close my eyes and make believe that I am exactly what you need.
I never tell you any of this. Instead, I just walk with you and listen (because I always listen), and swallow up my words.