You make me feel so much, don't you know?
No, you don't.
You make me feel so incredibly—so painfully—plain, like I was the off-white paint on your bedroom walls, the one you keep meaning to change (but never get around to).
And you don't know, but I live for that half-wink, half-squint you throw into your side-way smiles.
And you don't know, but I adore every inaudible word that comes out of your cigarette-stained lips.
And
you don't know, but I treasure the cluster of grey hair around your
temples, and how they seem to hide away under the scrutiny of my gaze.
And
then you come around and call me with a name that isn't mine, and you say that you
aren't good with names, and you're sorry for half a second, and you
carry on.
You make me feel like fucking shit, don't you know?
No, you fucking don't.
