You are a chapter in my book, but I’m merely a sentence in yours
I love you. I love you I love you I love you. I knew it from the moment you held my hand. And I never saw it coming, but in that moment I knew. I could write novels about how much I feel for you. I could write novels about how I feel like my chest is going to cave in whenever I think about you. I could write novels about your lips. Your perfect, perfect lips. I love the way you make silly faces, the way you call me names and the way you look when you’re mad. I love how much you love your mom and how much you love your friends. I love how animated you are at all times even if it’s to say that you are tired as fuck or that you hate someone’s guts. I love the way you steal my food and my drinks and my heart. I hate that you’re so far away. I hate that you don’t see how I feel. I hate that you don’t feel the same way. I hate that you can go days without talking to me when I can’t go ten seconds without talking to you. It doesn’t matter though, what you think or how you feel. I mean, it does matter, but not in reference to me. You could think nothing of me and I’d still think the world of you, because to me that’s what you are. You are the world. You are absolutely the world. And nothing else matters. It really doesn’t. And it scares me a lot, but there’s nothing I can do, I knew it from the moment you held my hand. And I never saw it coming, but in that moment I knew.
Girls are not machines that you put kindness coins into until sex falls out.
My entire facade is built on sarcasm and the conception of being okay.