You don't believe me when I tell you that I like the noises you make when you sleep. And I don't believe you when you tell me that my voice is your favourite sound, not when you can sing like that. One of your ex's name tastes like stale coffee. And the other one burns as if I've swallowed a scalding pot. You don't understand why I don't discuss my first love with you. But how am I supposed to tell the sun that I once fell for the moon? If I could, I'd pay rent for the spaces between your fingers, so if anyone else tried to interwine their hands with yours, they would be trespassing. I'm very good at useless metaphors. And very bad at telling people how I feel. But on our worst nights, you're snow in the month of March and even though I'm sick of winter, I will never stop appreciating the beauty of a blizzard.
