He gave swerves to uncategorized happiness, with spins that ******* back into his despondencies. He was never given a chance to applaud himself for being a second-long happy or get back to the spotlight where he did belong to his whole **** life. He's properly beautiful when he dances, or when he's proud of his weakest points. Him singing, even the most heard songs will sound re-engaging as if he owns it. Our eyes pace head-on against our cars' contraries. Every scar I had given to my wrists soothe when we wrap our sinful hands in an ill-starred manner.

Love, for him, is altruistically pouring around like sudden downpours on a midsummer day; he had everything to offer yet nothing for himself. He invests a lot with what he wins back. He's the grandeur of a boring ensemble of actors yet still believes he's the subpar star when in reality, no such star existed like it. No one would ever dare to leave him with a river to bleed, or cherry wine bottles with teary send-offs.
Anyone who does that will rest assured have a slot in his own obscenities - oh, how I wish hell would be a lot better than that.

I wasn't briefed for safe keeping such recherchés, that I had to jilt. A handful will be curious, why my decision is a ****-up; or rather, why am I a **** up. But I would say people with better anything deserve his still-endearing dissonances. And all I have are lyrics while he gives song compositions. All he ever needs are happy mornings who hugs him back so right. Behind their curtains are joy-tinted windows with episodes of cuddles and husky 'Good morning's'. I am not that person, so I had left him in his most heightened situation yet - loving me. In a bed full of my inconsistencies, he was sleeping beside his hard-to-swallow Ecstasies.