Love is shallow and fond. I feel it when you call me sweet when I'm stumbling into your room when I can't find the bathroom. Can tell I'm not right, poor thing--
Sweet girl, it is down the hall--see, over there, that one. And to the left. Right through that door, sweet, do you see it? Yes, I do, I do now. And thank you, you are rare but you were easy to find: makes you feel like it'll be so easy again (it is easy you idiot). But it won't be. I was lost but I'm not anymore.
I remember saying love is, you see him like he wants to be seen. I am not understood very often even when I try to make myself clear, I don't want it after all. I can be understood very easily but I get told I don't make sense, sure I think that is an excuse (for laziness when I am egotistical, ambivalence when I am realistic, and stupidity when I am cruel).
I want to learn your name over and over forever, I can't see it ever hurting me but I don't ever want to know. And someday I'll stumble in back here looking for you pretending I already forgot. Do you call me kind things because you can't remember my name? Please don't lie to me, it won't get you anywhere: I could never be angry at you.
In the dark & moving car I close my eyes and timejump to never seeing you again until next Christmas Eve-- I will be drunk off my ass on Bailey's and Kahlua again, and you will be in all black and white, rigid and austere like the Hays code-- I won't ask your name and you won't ask me mine because it doesn't matter, we don't know each other, and I don't think we could. Anyway I'd prefer if you call me whatever you like.
Written partially during "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" lol -- Love catholicism
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