And Lauren said, “You could probably make anyone fall in love with you.”
I had my pants rolled up, I was painting a board, trying to help make something for some people I liked. I’m not a painter, I’m not good with building things. I tear things apart, not build them up. But there was Lauren, telling me I could make her love me if I just tried. I wish it was that easy, you know? Snap your fingers and ask for the world to be yours.
Your square jaw, your inordinate blush, the way you put yourself together. If I could build dreams out of dark tresses and pale skin, you’d be my Winter Palace. I’ve dreamed of a comfortable life with you, and now I can’t seem to do exactly what you told me I could.
When all of this is over, when the sky lays like a torn canvas, dark and stormy in the summer rain, I’ll run. I’ll run home with no shoes on and I’ll try and scramble across the sea and I’ll pound the pavement with my hands until I’ve got some sticky blood to look at and show the world; this is what’s in me, this is what’s pulsing, and this is what I’m trying to give to you.
