today i laid on my back in the middle of the new york public library and stared at the painting on the ceiling
i’m not the kind of person to do that
to be honest, it was just because you did -
without a thought, without a pause, you just flopped down and stared up at prometheus bringing fire to the mortals,
your eyes huge and full of life
when we were crossing the street to get to bryant park,
you grabbed my hand so i wouldn’t get lost in the crowd and
we both held on for a little bit too long
are you thinking about that moment as much as i am?
sometimes i wish i could forget about the kind of person i’m supposed to love, supposed to marry -
the perfect christian guy that my parents would love, who would pray the rosary with me every night before bed
sometimes i wish i could just love who i want to love, and stare up at the paintings on the ceiling even though i’m not supposed to,
because who even puts a painting on the ceiling anyway?
it's beautiful, it's there,
so why shouldn't i look at it?
you are utterly unprecedented, you make me feel normal and human and alive
your hand was so small and cold but it was okay, it really was
for b
