Clothes hang off of shoulders and limbs like thick black curtains and I've given up on questioning my attractions. Heartograms convince me to dust off old CDs that I had listened to once or twice before as a favor for a former friend. The lyrics don't feel as cheesy or trite because I know he listens to the same ones. His voice gives off a subtle tremor that rattles the ribcage and there's a glow that's felt not seen. Like a moth to a lit lamp, like roach to a shadow, like a soul to the light. I want to run fingers along bones and breathe the irrefutable smell of boy, fabric and hair product. I want to ask 'CanIcanIcanIcanI?' and hear a 'Yesyesgoahead.'
His hair is prettier than YOURSYOURSYOURS on a good day and when he lets it fall where it wants without vanity I ask myself in a whisper
OH MY GOD DARLING DID YOU HANG THE MOON AND STARS?
Dear open ears; I hate teenage romance, It makes me physically sick.
Dear open ears; Your mid-hallway makeout sessions send me to the bathroom to vomit.
so tell me, Dear open ears;
Why do I crave what you have so badly?
