you don’t look at me the same way I look at you. I know because I can see the ending in your eyes every time I come around. The ending that’s already made up in your mind about who I am and who I will be for eternity. About how I will never break your heart and how we’ll spend every Sunday morning fucking the shit out of eachother and call it passionately making love because your favorite jazz song is playing in the back. You gaze at me the way every girl wants to be gazed at. Every girl but me. And maybe because I’m fucked up from fucked up experiences. Or maybe I’m just free in my own sense of diligence. Or maybe... maybe I’m just me. Just here to experience fucking you on Sunday mornings... wanting you to grow a weakness for me... wanting you to want me like you’ve never wanted anything else... wanting you to tell me things I want to hear... wanting you to want me wanting you the same way you want me... just to find yourself forgotten about on a Sunday afternoon.