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.
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.
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
You make me feel like fucking shit, don't you know?
No, you fucking don't.