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If it isn’t clear already, I gravitate towards toxicities like a moth to a flame.
“You can’t save a person who doesn’t want to be saved,” she whispers through her smile.
“It means you don’t have anyone waiting for you,” she says, her lips turned down in disappointment as her eyes finding mine again. “You deserve to have someone waiting for you.”
“I’m a lot to handle. When I find what I want, I fucking drown in it, taking everyone with me in my wake. Addictive personality problems.”
We were open books, our words blending together to form our own beautifully tragic kind of tale. One that can only be written with our tongues, read with our fingertips to flesh, understood only with our souls.
She makes me melt when I’m near her. The world around us becomes a smear of distant memories. A past I no longer care for. The only thing I want is to always be present in her space, in her time, in her vision.
