Carpe Omnia.

If you’re ever thinking about me, tell me. Even if it’s a bad thing, just tell me. Tell me about how a song remind you of something I shouldn’t have said. Tell me about a scent and how you hated it because it would make you think about me. Tell me that I just popped up in your mind and you hated me for it. Tell me that you saw an old photo of me and felt sorry for me because you couldn’t love me the way I loved you. Tell me that you were going through our old messages and you laughed at how stupidly in love I was with you. I want to know, I want to know every and anything you think about me. I don’t care if it’s not what I want it to be, I just need to know that I sometimes cross your mind.

My mouth hasn’t shut up about you since you kissed it. The idea that you may kiss it again is stuck in my brain, which hasn’t stopped thinking about you since well before any kiss. And now the prospect of those kisses seems to wind me like when you slip on the stairs and one of the steps hits you in the middle of the back. The notion of them continuing for what is traditionally terrifying forever excites me to an unfamiliar degree.