"I pay a lot of attention to your handwriting and the colour of ink and the type of notebook you use, the scruffs on your oxfords and the hair in your eyes. When I close my eyes our smiles match and in the morning our skin is soft and the sheets are stained from the night before.
I get sentimental for no reason and I think about not having it and not having that, stomach melting, butterflies tipping against skin. Lips and it's all soft and wet and lazy and desperate and until there is red, hot pain and red, hot need it's never going to be real.
Sunlight streaming through a window--I miss that. Waking up to someone naked with the sunshine on his skin, my skin. But it's not about 'love' or really anything. Just moments and thinking, just for a minute, that it's not all just a lie.
I pay alot of attention to your hands and the way you write because one is the way inside my heart and my mind and staying awake and singing your lyrics and one is the way to me, wet and aching and needing to be handled.
Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning, and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside, remembering all the times you felt that way, and you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway.
The fact that you don't seem to want me anymore was apparent. It was blatantly staring at my face, as if it has been waiting for me to take it in. But what really hurt was the fact that it seems as if I don't even deserve an explanation from you. A simple reason why you don't need me anymore, or a head's up - something like "Hey, look out, I'm going to break your heart into a trillion pieces, okay?"
Not even a single word."