I want to show you my favorite things, and have you tell me they didn't live up to the expectations I wove for them. That I sold you the romance of the perfect movie and it didn't compare to my enthusiasm on the subject.
I want to trace the lines of muscle along your back as you snore into my pillow, leaving your scent embedded on the blankets.
My blankets.
There's false hope that rests on your shoulders, to keep yourself from sinking down into that depression you told me about. The one you say you can't help as you get quiet.
I want to show you my favorite band, and have you tell me that I sampled you the wrong song, and you would like to listen to a different one just so you can get a taste for what I love.
The sad truth is, that I love a lot of things, but you are not one of them.
And I have no control over my emotions but you're a little too late, and I can't help but feel sorry that you fell in love with someone like me.