crappy poems

Minor details.

I love the little things he does.

From playing with the cover of my phone,
To smiling to himself over spikey remarks i make at my friends.
From his smiles,
to his subtle jealousy.
From his oblivious curiosity,
To the secret sinfulness.
From his cluelessness,
To his amusement.

I love the little details on him.
From the guitar string bruises on his fingers,
To the subtle cracks in his voice.
From his stupidity with fashion,
To his unruly hair.
From my favourite things on him,
To his insecurities.

I love them all.
But i hate that he keeps me up at night writing poems that end up as crumpled pieces of paper thrown in the bin,
discarded completely,
As those papers reflect how i treat my own feelings.