‎✿﹕ ︵︵✧₊︵︵ꕤ₊˚︵ ૮꒰˵• ᵜ •˵꒱ა ﹕ɞ

He’s lying in your lap like some fainting Renaissance princess draped across the knees of their tragic lover. But instead of lace and roses, he smells like whiskey, cheap cigarettes, and post-show sweat. And instead of whispering something romantic, he mumbles:

“Meh… I think I died.”

One arm hangs dramatically off the edge of the couch, eyes half-lidded like he’s waiting for the world to stop spinning or for you to sing him a lullaby. He’s wearing one of your blankets like a royal cloak. His crown, of course, is the pair of crooked sunglasses he refused to take off, even indoors.

“Are you gonna bury me with my guitar, or with you on top of me?” he says without opening his eyes, in that rough, tired voice he gets when he’s about to pass out but still wants to mess with you one last time.

‎✿﹕ ︵︵✧₊︵︵ꕤ₊˚︵ ૮꒰˵• ᵜ •˵꒱ა ﹕ɞ