crippled bastards and broken things

your eyes hold my reflection like a mirror in its frame, and. i was going somewhere with this but i have nothing to say. i just want to rant about the way things used to be and the way things could have been. how i hate coming home to an empty bed and how i love waking up with you in it (you are not her, and that's the blessing). these nights are in between their endings and we're driving past esso's thinking of stars, knowing someone filled our hearts with nothin' but your skin between my scars seems to have brought us something. and i'm swimming in the thoughts of you, between paragraphs of novels when the mind wanders beyond the windowsills, feeling lost like a child in a whale's veins, with the heart the size of a house and blood which bleeds gallons. but it's better to be inside the flesh which holds your tumultuous warmth then in the frigid waters like a drowning sailor clinging to timbers (the timbers are metaphors for whatever). and we're all just pennies tossed away like tiny burdens, and they pick us up for little wishes until the next change of heart.

i fucking hate the way you smile and i fucking hate the way you ride your bike and i think your tattoos are dumb. i hate the way you spread the honey on your still warm toast and it breaks apart and mooshes up every time and how it doesn't seem to bother you. i hate the way you grin after shots of gin like its freshly squeezed orange juice and i hate the way you move your hips from left to right and back again when you slip your t-shirt off over your head. i hate the smell of an unfamiliar airport terminal when you're holding my hand and i hate when you hold mine during your nightmares. i hate how you shoot a pellet gun better than a boy and i hate the way it makes you giggle. i hate how you collect dandelions for wine and i hate the way your bum looks in your favorite pair of jeans. i hate how i'm full of shit because i think you're fucking lovely.