I'm a simple person,or, more so;I like to think I'm a simple person.You aren't a simple person,or, more so;I'm a simple person trying to figure out another.Your movements,Your facial expressions,Your words.I spend time figuring out,What every choice you make is all about,But, I am only to findThat even an individual like me, who is deemed as "smart" and "kind,"Will never be able to comprehend even a fraction of your mind.I'm a simple person,or, more so;
I want someone to care about mein the same way I care about you.I want someone to memorise little specific things about mein the same way that i do for you.I want someone to smile when they know they've made my day a little bit betterin the same way that I do for you.I want someone to be scared to lose me,to want to hold me,to consider risking their life,to cry themselves to sleep,to put on a specific perfume,to write me secret love notes only to never give them,to think about me as the love interest of their story,to relate the song to me,to say that i was their childhood crush,in the same way i do for you.
"i love you,"it's a 3-word phrase thatwhen taken out of contextis seemingly simplebut, in my humble opinionpushing the idea of love on anyone issickeningbecause"i love you"doesn't always mean"you're my everything"and"i love you"doesn't always mean"you're my forever"and maybe
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.