The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows.

Will You Take Me Home?

I think it's funny how every time we'd talk after twelve, either one one of us would be intoxicated.

Now, that was months ago.

And, yeah, we don't talk anymore; I know you don't tell your friends about me anymore and you know I haven't wrote about you in a while. But I'm stood in a crowd of people I barely recognize, and we've both made eye contact too many times to pretend there's any other form of familiarity left for us in this room.

I wonder, should I walk over?

My gut tells me no, so I do.

And you pretend not to notice me, so I put my hand on your shoulder and force you to. 

I don't know if it's the skin on skin or eye to eye, but one of either makes me momentarily feel like we're back in the old days. 

I think it's funny how all the times I've said this to someone, they've led me to a dark room with messy sheets and candle-lit corners. You were the one person who saw right through me and took me somewhere else. Somewhere I could unforgivingly be myself.