Slow, quiet, lonely love.

You showed me your face a whole one time. I knew you for three years prior. And I already knew I’d find you beautiful.

You’re the best person I know. You’re a graceful wreck. But you clean up nicely every time. You dust off the debris. You hold yourself up by tendons and with fractured bones, and you stand strong somehow, quivering, shaking, holding your ground. Shining.

You’re a bright, unabashed sun and I turn my face toward you to feel love. To feel benevolence. Something in your soul improves everything it touches.

When you’re ugly, you’re ugly.  But no one can be beautiful all the time.

You’re rarely wrong.

You’re sweet.

I think I love you. I think I’ll never tell you. I think I wanna talk to you more. Maybe someday you’d tell me first.


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