Tell me.
Tell me that I'm not making it up, that I'm not the only one that feels
Like this
Tell me that it's simply infatuation so I can pretend I don't care at all.
I tell myself that
I cannot remotely be ready when heartbreak is the door that is still ajar, even if only
An inch.
Tell me that this situationship is purely
Professional
And I will believe you.
It makes sense to construct something that wouldn't otherwise exist,
Be it not for the shitty place we hate.
I don't yearn for physicality as my heart is too precarious for
That.
But nonetheless intimacy seems to be
Inevitable.
So if this is all in my head surely
It'll pass.
Tell me that I'm wrong or right.
Just tell me the thoughts that live in your head as you live in
Mine.
