Sunday December 19, 2010
I just don’t understand why, everytime we talk, it seems as if you’re always angry at me. Like I did something wrong, or said something incredibly stupid. Maybe I did, maybe I said. Maybe I am. But I’m just like the time you met me and just like the time you kissed me and only the day has changed.
I’m still the one who makes silly jokes, who listens to jazz in the dark of his room, who writes poetry in a little black book and who thinks you’re beautiful. I’m still the one who thinks that you’re perfect, no matter what. But sometimes, I’m also the one who doesn’t understand that agression, that numbness or the look in your eyes.
