I want to sit at home and chill in my pajamas
and make a peanut butter sandwich with lots of bananas
Sitting at my white-wood desk with stationary
it seems so, but it isnt penententiary
I’d like some tea please, fuck you and your coffee
dont expect me to rhyme anymore, so im stopping.
so there’s this person in a lovely tartan hunting hat at one of those huge bookstores and his knuckles are bruised so you can tell there’s some wall out there that’s in pain right now and oh my, does he look like the kind of boy a camera-hugging, angsty girl would fall in love with.
and not once does he bother with eye contact or any kind of body language that wishes to communicate with another person. looking at him and thinking of him just makes people think of a big white house with a small black velvet armchair and perhaps empty bird cages. occaisionally one is allowed the liberty to glance at his mouth as it shifts, animated with words he is reading and thoughts he is muttering to himself. who really knows what?
oh yes, you can tell he has lovely shoulder bones even when he is clothed. his hair smells like he excuses himself every 5 minutes to the bathroom where he lathers it furiously with pine sap. he looks pained and hurt and full of a sad and violent childhood that disgustingly makes you want to want him so much more. his small talk will make you feel alive enough to run olympic lengths and you will trail after like some glossy, sunshine sickened retriever.
he doesnt want that.
he just wants to read and listen to some hardcore scene music and slip into his leather jacket. you will not be invited to hop onto his vintage motorbike and bake him cookies. he’s a personality all right. and he looks hella cute when he reads to you in french. but he wont. pourquoi? je ne sais pas. haha and he secretly thinks you write some terrible poetry and that should break your heart, but that doesnt. because you write beautifully and your words look better than his face.