12.20.17

I don't want you like a best friend. I want you in the way it feels when your arm slithers around my waist whenever we lie in a bed that is not my own-- simultaneously the least harmful and most poisonous serpent. You're soft with me, but with others, your armor is too thick to warrant any kind of vulnerability-- with me, you strip it off, at first you did so with hesitation, but now you do so with ease and a tiny bit of liquid courage. You really are my person, you couldn't have said it any better, those few words still burn holes through me every time I touch that piece of paper. I know there's nothing there hiding in the caverns of your vacant heart, probably nothing, most likely nothing, there's no way there could be anything-- yet I still secretly hope I'll be proven wrong, that your feelings will surprise you just as much as they'd surprise me. I still have some kind of fleeting hope that you'll wander into your heart to find a brilliant crystal mine and you'll see me in every single gleam. We have something special, that I know for a fact, and even if it can't be special in the ways my heart desperately hopes, I'll hold onto this friendship with everything I possibly could, even if you're a precious gem and I'm fool's gold.