you're my favorite book pages worn and tear-stained special moments dog-eared quotes traced in bright yellow highlighter notes scribbled in margins spine torn and aging cover bent and creased stains and wrinkles spread throughout you're my favorite book I've read you at least one hundred times I recommend you to my friends over coffee but only to those who'd appreciate you only a certain type of mind can appreciate you understand all your themes and moods understand the author's ideas and plans and laugh at all the right moments you're my favorite book I carry you in my messenger bag everywhere I go and I love the way you smell like nostalgia and that page 46 still has a hot chocolate stain from that one camping trip where I read you by lantern light under a heavy sleeping bag and I love the way you feel in my hands you're my favorite book but that doesn't mean I don't read others sometimes I'll read another to find it's awful other times quite fantastic with battles that make you sweat and deaths that make you cry but none of them are you you're my favorite book and I suppose you always will be
Shame on you for not loving me back Shame on you for not staying Shame on you for not making me stay Shame on you for... Shame on you Shame on you Shame on *Shame on me, for hoping, believing and loving, and living.
Last time we spoke she brimmed with hope, romance was in the air. This time she looked me in the eye, shook her head from side to side, fiddled with her hair and frowned, raised a little finger, and wagged it up and down
lately, everything's been about you. i'd see "closed" signs on antique shop windows and eviction notices on apartment doors and remember how it felt when you slammed the door on every possibility of us. i'd see pens and papers and stop myself in the bookstore from throwing them on the ground and screaming "i used to be the one you write about". now i just find spare ones in my room that i can cry onto when no one's around. the ink seeps through my fingertips as i break the plastic case of every pen i lay my hands on and it's supposed to make me feel better but it doesn't. it just reminds me of the ink you injected in my veins and no matter how deep i cut i can't get it the **** out.
you grew something inside of me and i swear they're not flowers because they've been flourishing when i water them with *****.
i'd stare at streetlights and remember that one time you told me you'd kiss me under every single one of them but here i am brushing my teeth so hard it bleeds every night because the only time i taste your lips now is when i'm dreaming.
and now here i am trying in vain to paint the sunset with the color of your eyes. i didn't want to forget how they lit up when you said "i love you" but maybe it was just a reflection of how bright mine were when you finally said those three words.
well, to be fair, you only told me you loved me. i guess it's my fault i assumed it meant you'd never leave.