It is a slow Saturday and i am thinking of all the music that should be playing and how smooth it’ll sound against rainfall windows and my fingers on your hip bones.
I am thinking of the way you will smell, how soft your bed sheets are, how warm the inside of your arms are and how your neck will taste.
Lana del rey’s voice slightly audible over your resting breath, your drumming heart, your rising chest is something I’m still trying to find the words for; you are poetry i can’t even pen.
Okay no. Fucking no. You think your sandwich is cute with peanut butter and jelly hearts, fucker? Well you’ll change your mind once you put it together and try to eat it. First you’ll get a mouthful of just bread and disappointment, then when you take another bite your mouth will be assaulted by copious the amounts of sticky peanut butter and sugary jelly and there won’t be enough bread to save you from it. A sandwich like that is what failure tastes like. The pb and j may be shaped like hearts but there’s no love in that sandwich. It’s about balance. Life needs balance, and so does your fucking sandwich. You disgust me. Don’t talk to me until you know how to make a proper sandwich.