never mix a poet and an artist. he whispered to me, his words mix like paint in his head to form a beautiful sunrise. "two pretentious people can never get their way, we're two busy expecting the other person to make a move". i'm too scared to let him get close, i'll write about him, i won't be able to forget about him, and all i want to do is act reckless at night and pretend i'm good in the morning. i wonder what games i'm playing this time. maybe i wanted to kiss him, maybe i didn't. my brain can't make it's mind up. i'm fickle. all i know is an emotion in the moment, and i tug on it, i won't let it go. if i can feel anything at all, let me feel it. so i'll play with his hands and he'll shake his head and complain i never know what i want, and our heads lean in and i tell myself i won't kiss him, and something twists in my stomach, and i tug, i tug.