infatuation
-
I can sit in a park and watch people for hours; their vague denial entertains me. That or I crave naivety. We have lost the art of discernment in this world. I am no saint. My impairment comes with a boy. Cliché. Unoriginal, but lays kindle to a fire that keeps me warm at night.
-
I’m used to this feeling. Moving on doesn’t hurt so much anymore. My feet stopped dragging last month. My lungs no longer feel on the verge of collapse. I think you conditioned a certain kind of break— somewhere between my kisses and hers. The realization hit quietly: wanting something—someone—too badly can take the fun out
-

Will you still make me seem foolish amid your lack of interest? I gain nothing with uncertainty, maybe that’s why I have grown bored with games. Regardless of the time, I still respect you. I still see you in a light of your own. I still think you’re intriguing or whatever word that fits. I’ve reprimanded myself for treating



