Obsession
I love the way you talk and walk. I love the way you blink.
I love the way you threw that dish towel right into the sink.
I love the way you gesture and I love the way you nod.
I love the way you look past the fact that I am odd.
I love the way you see me and I love the way you look,
from how you hold a newspaper to how you hold a book.
I love the way you clear your throat, and how you shake my hand.
I love the way you deal with every situation in which you land.
I love the way you interact, and how you question everything.
I love how you are honest about how you cannot sing.
I love your overconfidence. You’re probably full of it
but I won’t grasp this totally until I’m in deep shit.
I love the way you know what to say in every eventuality.
I even find myself wishing I was your nationality.
I love the way you screw with me and make me want to visit.
Love is a drug, so it isn’t totally my fault, or is it?
I love your hair, your eyes, your skin, how perfect you seem to me.
I think of every conversation we had and jump up and down with glee.
I analyze every shred of proof you love me as I love you
and how you might just really care and not just want to screw.
I love your social skills, your talent at working a room
and how the spell you put me under shuts out any gloom
that comes over me when I’m more honest with myself.
I always in the end decide to put my common sense on the shelf.
Comments
Post a Comment