I want to wear your shirts. I want you to take your shirts off me and whisper dirty things in my ear. I want to wake up to your voice every morning and fall asleep to it every night. I built my entire life around not needing anyone. But I NEED you. I’m sorry it took me so long to let myself believe that. I don’t know if these are the right words to make you believe in it, too. Because I’m not healed yet. My existential wound is still fucking bleeding. And it might be too late. But you said there’s never going to be a perfect time. So I’m here now, saying that we deserve to be happy. Maybe
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