I love the way you make me think of words to describe your perfection whenever I look at you.
You’re beautiful, breathtaking, picturesque…
I love the way you give me so much feelings to have when, usually, I feel numb.
You make me happy, sad, jealous…
I love the way you speak as though you’re singing a song I could care less about; still, I’d listen to you.
You’re pop, rock, alternative…
I love the way you make me love you when all I really wanna do is protect myself from loving someone again.
I fall, and I fall, and I fall for you every single day.
But I hate the way you make me think that this won’t last. And you think that you know how this will end.
Because you’re afraid, scared, and terrified.
You think that what I feel is temporary. You think that the me who loves you is temporary.
But this is what I think:
That doubt of yours? That’s temporary. If anything is ever ephemeral, I won’t let it be my love for you.
And still, you left. You didn’t trust me enough.