twist the broken sky ♥

Some other couples kiss and grope and have sex, and I like you, yeah, but I don’t want to do any of those things. I don’t know when or where, but there’s one thing I would love to do when you are finally within arm’s reach.

I want to lean on your shoulder. Well, not your shoulder shoulder. That space between your neck and your shoulder, that little sunken nook there. About perfect for the side of my head. I’d curl up beside you. Preferably with my fingers either lost in yours or sticky around an ice cream cone. All that mush.

I’d be looking straight at the piercing sunlight, and you would have to lend one ear to my tireless tirades. Your other ear would be trying desperately to hear yourself think. Consider yourself forewarned: I will talk a lot, and you’ll like it (I hope).

Whipping up my hands, palms facing outward, I’d gesture to form an invisible rainbow as I enumerated every one of my far-fetched dreams. I’d tell you all about my sad attempts at turning life into literature and my unevolved Pokemon. And in turn, you would lean in and make up nonsense dialogue for people who walked right by us. Or tell me about your unwavering fascination with Sherlock Holmes. I’d practically be reeling on the grass as you relayed pun after pun of discarded textbook references. You’d be the handful I thought God would never give me.

And—this is my favorite part—you’d pick me up, out of the blue, like I weighed nothing. I’d scream and kick, but on the inside, little would you know that my heart would be battering like a boomerang against my ribs. You would make me feel childish and blissful and silly and giddy and alive.

Leaning on your shoulder, I’d see the world. Well, technically I’d see skyscrapers and coffeeshops and things distorted 40 degrees to the left, but it would be the world as it were meant to be seen. 

That’s it. I wouldn’t dare ask for anything else. Except maybe a new heart to replace the one I’d just lost.

so impeccably spotless, that you begin to wonder at what time of the day they take a crap.

Or if they’ve ever scratched their scalp and sniffed their fingers afterwards. These people, you wonder if they have ever masturbated to a picture in a magazine, dropped their bags in public, or crack their knuckles. You wonder if the progression of their profile pictures on Facebook means they lead fast-paced, exciting lives.

If they fumble over buttons on a shirt and feel inadequate. Feel sorry for themselves because their wallets are starting to smell like dust and money. Do their lips ever crack? Did they ever have to adjust the antennae on a TV? What does waking up in the morning even feel like for them—what with their near-perfect hair, iridescent pupils and defined jawlines? You wonder if they ever have to deal with parents who curse, expect too much, or are never home. You wonder if they have ever had their hearts broken. 

You wonder if they are at all capable of feeling genuine human emotion—and then you feel terrible for putting them on a pedestal when they’re actually just like you.

Only hotter.

And in a society where a well-maintained epidermis is a legitimate concern 70% of the time, I wouldn’t blame you.