I trusted you to wind me up again and give me all my time back. I guess we can't help being all we are; but I just wish that you could have been more for me. I put my faith in you - I thought you were a god in a Smiths t-shirt. Turns out you were just another guy who couldn't save me.
I'm so sorry: this is not intimacy; this is merely formality. Your body pushing my legs open, my fingers in your hair and our eyes so definitely open. I wish we could close them. I wish I wish I wish. We fuck with the door open and the music playing so loudly that I can't hear your breath in my ear or my own strangled whimpers. It's a celebration of our aches.
It's obvious that this will never work. I don't know if all sex is this violent. I don't know if all men hit their girlfriends. I don't know why it feels so good.
I can't resist kissing your face (down your nose, around your cheekbones, over your perfectly fucking formed Cupid's Bow). I don't understand why I love you the way I do, but I hope I'm not taking this too seriously.














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