With kind eyes like that you’ll treat me right, but never choke me how I like.
It’s not butterflies. Unwelcome anxiety every time you text.
It’s so annoying to text and text and text and never say anything.
It’s a paradox: Heartbreaking loneliness with a fear of true love.
You’re leaving? It’s 9. It’s not love, but just be here. Be about tonight.
I can’t help but think is this “so what do you do?” really worth my time.
Out of exhaustion I married him and died slow. Old age or boredom?