eye frickin' you. ‎ ‎you and your introvert ass. you don't talk much. but she was hiding her smile. only she knew, you never shut up. that you're a talking book that could read something like— the raven and great expectations with a chilling lack of ethics and brimming perfume of melancholia. ‎ ‎and there she would go looking forward to coffee and you. beer and you. and you. dance with me, she told you. you don't dance. but you still did. let's do some we shouldn't be doing this stuffs. you can't. but you did—and no winter lasts forever. no spring skips its turn— you return like autumn, and she falls every time, only to be lifted by your thighs. do you ever just look at a person's hands and think yes? ‎ ‎you gave her a lump. not a lump in her throat—but a lump in her myocardium that could pass on as a tumor—a heart on an affection tumor. she doesn't want to be called pretty. she wants to be told what song she looks like. and that's how the nonsense escalated. ‎ ‎snatching off your glasses, testing it on herself, "wow, you're fricking blurry."