You’re not fucking poetic and most days I’m glad for it but some days I really ache for it, I do, I know how it feels to ache like that, I’ve broken enough bones in my body to feel the ache deep down inside them when it rains, and it’s like it’s constantly drizzling inside me when you’re quiet, or when you’re here but not really here and I watch the way you look at things, and just once I wish your eyes would burn for me like that when you’re not holding a bottle. Those people that everyone writes about falling in love with do not exist, they can’t exist because no one is that way all the time, no one makes you coffee every morning because we’re human and eventually we get tired and forget, they don’t eat pomegranates and leak blood all over the kitchen floor and laugh over the mess. They don’t always hold you when you need holding and they don’t always know the right thing to say, and sometimes they don’t even say anything at all. They never know why you’re crying.
Who the hell eats pomegranates anyway?
She’s poetic in the way that I don’t understand half the shit that she says. But it’s still drizzling inside me when she looks right through me and doesn’t say anything at all, and I guess you could call that poetry too, but I wouldn’t. It just hurts."