awkward gravity.

It's like an old film reel. Clicking and flickering and suddenly - images. I brush my hand over your forehead. Your hair hasn't been cut in a while, and it runs a while through my fingers until it slips through their cracks and lands, disheveled, on your face and over your eyes. I throw you a half smile, the kind I make, that smirk you call it. You blow the hair out of your face, comically, with eyes crossed and it makes me laugh. The big laugh that takes over and crinkles my eyes and swallows my whole face. The real laugh you call it. 

We're just lying here, I get my two pillows and you have your one. It's one of those special moments where we don't feel guilty for just spending the day looking at the shapes in the ceiling, and I point out mine and you tell me yours and I try to find them. I'm always wrong but you lie to me and tell me I'm right. Enamored maybe, with me. I don't know why, and you certainly weren't always.

Sometimes I see you. Someone else whose obviously hiding secrets under baggy eyes, you're like a comic book character, you know. Don't get cocky, it's got nothing to do with being heroic. It's because you pretty much wear the same clothes every day. And you're broody. You are not an open book and I'm not into imposing. And emotional. But not the kind to let on. The kind that's only applicable in hindsight and that must drive everyone you know crazy. But the most frustrating? You're content being a martyr. You like to think of a better day but your comfortable in your own head and that's exactly where you'll stay, even if your arms and legs move and build an empire that reaches the sky. You're brilliant, and lovable, and you wasted it on me. Because you're so comfortable never actually going out and getting what you want from someone who can give it to you. 

Every time we pass. You don't care. You don't care. I keep thinking, maybe if we keep telling ourselves this, it will be true. I want to ask, happy now?