Lately I’ve been trying to figure out why people are like drugs.
I’m practically addicted to the way your skin feels and the way your voice sounds like a song I never want to end and the way you somehow found me even though we were never supposed to meet.
We’re practically the same person and I think that’s why we burn so bright.
The only way I can attempt to describe our dynamic is when you left last time and my hands were on your stomach and you were looking at me like you wanted to kiss me. And I knew I wanted to kiss you. But instead you held me for another minute or two and we both turned away as if there wasn’t something undeniable in the air that stayed for days after you drove away.
You’re sitting on my couch and we’re trying to figure out what’s been going on for the past two years. I’m trying to get out my feelings, but it’s hard. I’m watching the clock tick and I know you have to leave in an hour. I’m scooting closer to you and I’m holding your hands and you’re asking me why I’m making it so hard. And I said it’s because I can’t believe I don’t know when I’m going to see you again.
I would drive four hours if it meant I could see you every night.
