- The fear of never being as cool to anyone as I am to strangers online.
- The fear of falling apart if I am undone too quickly.
- The fear of never being able to express myself to anyone as much as I can to my journal.
- The fear of drowning (in alcohol, in hope, in myself.)
- The fear of not being…
Tell her why you would die of a broken heart without her.
Whenever she doesn’t talk to you, sing, ‘Do you love me?’ from Fiddler On The Roof. After the movie, make her a cup of tea before you both go to bed. Do this every night. Yes, every night; don’t forget to add lots of honey. Sometimes, you’ll wonder if that’s the reason her skin is golden.
She likes long showers, and has a panic attack at the thought of having to order at a drive-through. Don’t let her shyness fool you though, she will re-enact movie scenes, dance in the supermarket, sing at the top of her lungs after midnight, and do a one woman show, just for you.
There will be times when you’ll feel lost though. I know you want to understand everything about her and figure out why she acts a certain way.
But, look at yourself first. You are barely figuring out who you are, and you demand to know every little thing about her? Fuck you. Tell me why you have that weird twitch when you get flustered? You don’t know? Well, until you figure that out, don’t over-analyze her. I know you will, but try to take it easy on her.
She has a capacity to love that will sweep the dust off your old bitter heart. And whether it’s an injured banana slug, or a dog who needs a home, notice how her eyes shine brighter than love.
I know two and a half years seems like a long time, but in the big picture, your lives are insignificant blurs, and unless you give a meaning to them, they don’t mean a damn thing.
And you are lucky, because she gives your life meaning: the way she makes fun of how you wash your hair, her smile after you kiss her goodbye in the morning, her phobias that you forget all the time, her love for country music and Kanye West…
Slow down, and learn how to live. Daydreams are good, but don’t fall into a fantasy world in order to escape your problems.
You’re doing fine, and you’ll be okay as long as you don’t bullshit yourself.
Bo Burnham understands.
I love you more
sext: finger me like i am the strings of your favorite guitar, until my vertebrae vibrate with the melodies hidden in between the spaces of my spinal cord.
sext: the needle touches vinyl and i can’t get my hands off of you.
sext: our breaths quicken into quarter notes, eighth notes, sixteenth notes. we crescendo to a chorus of carbon dioxide and then begin again, panting.
sext: i’m stevie nicks and you’re tom petty. remind me that there is still a way to translate love into music. remind me that a heartbeat can be shared territory.
sext: even my name sounds like music when wound around your tongue.
sext: save your forevers for a stadium packed with screaming lights. i just want your now, amplified loud enough to shatter my stereophonic rib cage.
sext: come closer, i want to map out your body on a mix tape and press replay so many times that you can hear the smudged fingertip traces.
sext: whoever they are, wherever they are, they are singing about us.
sext: they will always be singing about us.