the ends of his hair fall past his neck, his collarbones still bloomed with faint bruises. they’re the kind that show when he wears sweaters with drooping necks and soft sleeves.

but he doesn’t wear those anymore. now, he mostly wears your clothes or sweatshirts a size too big so he can pretend.

he watches you with that look of dolence; he can’t see much through his hair, not like this. but he can sometimes catch a glimpse of your shoes as he sits there on your bed, slumped over uselessly.

he looks pretty like this; sullen and listless. he always calls you when he can’t sleep. he makes you come over to brush his hair, and tell him cruel things and promise to stay forever. he can only really rest when he feels his heart is spent.

his mouth is soft from tiredness and he makes no protest when you grasp his chin and examine him.

it’s harsher than he expects; when you let go of him he feels like he’s been slapped. but his head doesn’t loll far and his cheeks warm as he has to bite back a sigh.

people tell him this is what love is like, but all he feels is misery.