Please don’t write me a poem.
I don’t want to “pour my soul” into anybody nor do I want “ashes of my thoughts” spread across any bare skin. I don’t want my secrets to be held on the surface of any rough tongue or kissed by any lips. I’m actually not seeking for an exchange of deep and philosophical thoughts triggered by the concoction of any reasoning behind opening up and the security a late night brings. I don’t want to think about the stories behind your scars and I don’t have the energy to tell you that of all the people who have come and gone, I’ve never been able to feel the way I feel (now). Because I wouldn’t know if I’d be lying and most likely, I probably am without the intention of being misguiding. The reality is that people let go and in doing so, they forget. And with forgetting comes denial of ever feeling anything at all.