i don't think i'll ever be proud of how i love you. burning your cigarette on the back of my neck because i love the feeling and you love the sound of my pain is how we spend our nights, followed by constant tossing and turning until our insomnia ***** our sleeping schedule and we turn from "you and i" into "us", the neighbors get angry when we're up at these times, always getting up and making coffee at 3am after our nightly routine, i'd ruffle your hair and you'd pick me up over your shoulder and spin me around until we were laughing so hard the walls couldn't breathe and you and i were finally at peace. you'd mutter something i wouldn't understand and i'd grab your notes, flipping through your notebook hoping a song would be about me but instead of how much you love me its about how much you love our sheets and our ways of sharing feelings, not speaking at all but instead just clawing and tearing and screaming and suddenly i feel like i could toss our vase across the room because you were supposed to love me but instead you love my body and i'm not sure if i can live with you wishing i'd moan instead of talk