Egghead: Or, You Can't Survive on Ideas Alone

by Bo Burnham

I want to kiss you all day.

I would do anything for you,

I would give you the moon if I could. You would love the moon.

How, may I ask, did you get so you, you beautiful true-to-you doer? I’ve met many today but can honestly say that I’ve never met anyone you-er.

Be sure to call in a year or so and tell me whether I was lifting heavy stones off your bunker door or plucking petals off your face.

I really want everything. That’s my first choice.

Yours truly, Yours, truly.

I’ll love you until I’m dead on the outside. I’ll give you every one of my mortal seconds. I’ll never leave your side. I’ll die holding your hand.

Please stay, I love you.

I want a calm blackness— the same shade that coats the back of my eyelids.

I don’t want to die. It keeps me up at night.

so attach a beach to the top of my hourglass.

The cool air feels nice, though. Sometimes, when my head aches, I let my eyes relax and I enjoy the breeze as the words blur.

It feels good to love an angel.

She could light up a room with her smile.

I love being silly,

I love you just the way you are but you don’t see you like I do. You shouldn’t try so hard to be perfect. Trust me, perfect should try to be you.

I’m a gargoyle.

You’re an angel.

But they had that same strange blend of familiar and miraculous— and they were always nice to look at after a long day of doing things.

And thank you to Bo. He sure is nice for being so tall.