i thought it’d be poetic to leave you the same way i found you, with a contentless text— a simple entered space (i knew you wouldn’t catch it) although you seem to be someone who thinks very deeply about all someones, your thoughts about me are puddles disguised as over-complimenting oceans
and i really do not know what i am or what i’ve been to you, or if i’ll be able to keep myself away from you, or why you’d drive hours to see me in the middle of the night when you “plan on kissing at least one girl in the next three months,” (could care less if it’s me)
"what would i be waiting for," you asked.
i’m barefoot, chasing a train i know is on tracks that lead away from where i want and need to be (but i liked the way it felt when your hand touched mine)
glad i never gave you any piece of my heart, because you’re the type of boy who’d rip it to shreds, hide your claws behind your back, and tell me that i should’ve seen it coming (though you would’ve been right)
maybe you’re just bored, and that’s why you decorate your skin with ink and don’t care about whose lips you’ve touched, and i wish i could figure you out, wish i could draw a perfect portrait with my words (or even just my thoughts) of who you are, but i won’t pretend i know you
i hate you and your ***** tattoo (but i don’t really hate you, i hate the way i let you make me feel.)