The last pretty good thing I worked on was that party, a few months ago, where I awkwardly talked to you right by the door. And part of you was really charmed and interested, and part of you thought I was a loser, and most of you was drunk. And you looked great in the light from the lamp outside, filtered through the screen, as it was.
The last really good thing I worked on was you, with the bushy hair and knows-too-little smile. Happy to see me, and full of teeth, and just another in a long line of things I don’t really want to do. A dead-end promise, a repeat decision-maker, a quaint reminder of some emotional alley I tried to OD in.
The last really great thing I noticed was that your heart was carved by an artisan. That something spun you, cracked and gorgeous, into existence and then blew you into my life. And like some beautiful lighthouse keeper I saw you on the shore, and still haven’t really decided whether to blow the horn or not. And I’ve always seen myself as a passing phase, so it’s hard for me not to believe that blues run the game, but here we are. You’re kind of all the things I want rolled into one, and maybe a bit more. I don’t know why I’m trying to keep my body in such pristine shape when it’d be better bruised up with you. Safe to say I’m trying to keep my wishes to myself, and not focus on your mouth too much.
I know it might not be my masterpiece, but I also know I don’t know the first thing about my daemon. I’d hate to think I’m going to end up anywhere near the place I expected to be.
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