We’re complete strangers that resemble each other. You need to be busy to stay out of your head. You cling to rolling waves because they’re louder than your thoughts. You push people away when you want validation. Your past is my bad memory. You would hate this.
I’ve seen you naked, once. You were wearing clothes but with your words you took everything off. You sounded broken but accepting, long within the process of letting go the illusion of control.
You’re probably a bad thing for me.
The demons on your back might confirm as much. It’s not often I think to myself that someone could break my heart but I know that you could.
Maybe that’s why you’re silent, a quiet observer in chaotic times.
Maybe you think the same.
Maybe I’m just fucking out of my mind.
That is truly a possibility, not gonna lie.
You make me feel something I haven’t been able to touch for a long time. It’s kind of fucking terrifying, honestly.
I wouldn’t want to cheapen your worth with my words. Not worth from money or popularity, worth from who you are. I see what is easily broken within you. I know better than to pretend I can fix you. Sometimes broken things mend themselves, sometimes they retain the brokenness. I think you’re beautiful in the way you are worn.
I think too much.