1AM, ripped jeans, black, fast cars, a cold beer, trip hop, grey areas, stubbornness, a puddle of mud, breezy weather, warm fingers up her thighs, street lights, dark curtains, milk spilled on the kitchen floor, memories, frozen yoghurt, make up kit, white shirts, dawn, warmth, tenderness, silver lightning, eyes wide open, a strange mixture of elements that work together against all odds, perfection. A mess.
Forget your head. Forget your heart. Forget your world. Happen, with me.
In the ocean waves and in the heat of summer and in the good vibes and the texts and the car rides and the films and the spontaneity and chances and helping hands and kisses and missed calls and expectations and food orders and trips and night that never end; so much love I’m being sent and I don’t know how to honour it.
A bunch of troubled people who still give the best they can, a moment so intense it feels eternal, hopes lost and roundabouts and big decisions and boxes and houses and outcomes and life trajectories, like a girl version of Mr Nobody choosing possibility over lost possibility and asking herself what-if questions twenty four seven.
Neon lights and glasses of wine, noises and words and Garbage’s Run Baby Run, his hands, a whisper, body heat and kisses I never knew before tonight. Triviality and getting lost and living in the moment, the present is all that matters, always paddle your own canoe, sharp teeth and laughing sounds and special effects, too much too soon.
Night after night and day after day until all the joy leaks out of my mind and I’m left alone again. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not close to anything. I’m floating, but I’m not airy and light and easy like a fucking Sunday morning. I’m a flock of questions marks flying back and forth and eventually in circles.
I don’t want to be the girl of your dreams. I want to be the girl of my dreams.
Stay for the good seconds, I tell myself and bite my lips and look outside, trying my hardest to take a trip outside my personal bubble and respect your point of view but the more I understand it the less I love you, and the more I want to cry for being so weak and you being so self-reliant, all the time. I like to think that I am either alone or in great company, but you are a great company and yet I’m always alone. Here, have my heart. Fuck you for having my heart.
“How odd, I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.” – David Foster Wallace