She’s the kind of girl you go emotionally broke for, spending every ounce of sanity trying to figure her out and even in the end never really sure if you’ve got it thoroughly mapped. She’s a high-wire act with a twist. You’re the one walking it and you’re the one trying to balance all the shit you’ve wrung for her.
Don’t worry, she never asked for any of this. All you’ve ever gotta do is turn around.
But you can’t, can you? All it takes is a stare. A few words. The rope really isn’t that long, is it? Funny how she can keep moving the end back further.
She doesn’t like poetry.
“Please don’t,” she said when you feigned an offer to immortalize her in words.
You figured that’s how she would respond.
She doesn’t like poetry but she pulls it the fuck out of you at every turn. This isn’t the ha-ha kind of funny, but more of a what the fuck kind of funny.
She is up-against-the-wall loving. Pull the sheets off the corners type of intensity. Fog up the windows kind of heat with a muscles-screaming kind of get to it.
Sunday’s were meant for recovery after a Saturday night getting drunk off of her. She’s one helluva hang over.
I wonder when I’m with her if I’m acting different because she makes me that way or am I just acting the way I am meant to and can, because she’s near. I’m questioning deep thoughts on self because of her and god damnit I hate that. Just when I think I know who I am she comes along and pulls out the piece holding it all up.
I can’t quit her.
And I wonder if she needs my can’t-quit, or maybe she just likes to know its there.