verse moi

i still don’t understand how after being granted life galatea could stop herself from choking that motherfucker pygmalion

i don’t even know you. you’re a work of fiction, an invention of my mind but your flesh and blood are as foreign to me as i probably am to you.

and each gust of wind kissed my cheeks so wonderfully and each sensation on my fingertips felt so beautiful and the world was bursting with cosmic truth and i was larger than life itself

but i will hide these feelings from last night until they fade away, just like the bruises on my neck

i wonder if the sun realises it’s not really the centre of the universe

sing to me of the muse, man.

and the saddest part is that i dont even like you, i just hate that you don’t like me. 

i generally don’t like public displays of affection, but two people leaning in for a kiss only to have their glasses bump into each other is pretty damn cute.

confession: i sometimes hit up my booty call when i’m just lonely, bored, or i’m down and i’m in desperate need of some cuddles.

its funny how much of an other person we imagine out of all the people we idolise