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Im coughing directions into the phone, my lungs hurt like im smoking sympathy cigarettes with you every time you light up. “turn left at the second stop sign. At the end of my driveway turn (b)right”. thank london god “I can’t wait to see you” weighs a whole lot more than “I cant let you see me like this” in the greater scale of things. You look so fucking good on my front porch when youre coming this way. I fake shyness at the door but london only because I think that’s what you want. There is london a breadcrumb trail of melancholy that leads back up to my bed or maybe out the third floor window depending on whose following it. We soften, we surrender in the failing light. I kiss your cheek goodbye (you’re not the one leaving). But its only a formality, like crossing yourself before you kneel in church. You are the bright oval light spotted out by the flashlight and I am everything else in the dark room. In the beginning I was only planning on holding on to you and using you recreationally, but then I started needing you at nights and then all the time.
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