she sits crying in my room. with her messy red hair and a heavy jewelled hand clutching that wine glass a little too hard. i take a sip too and start to cry as well and before we know it we’re on a train to Oxford. i spring out of the door and kiss the ground when we arrive, laughing.
when i home back home she’s crying in my room again, the faint smell of her perfume intertwines before me with cigarettes and unwashed promises. we laugh and joke and cry some more in front of these threadbare curtains as the city outside rises and screams “WAKE UP” and i think about how many hours it was since i last had him in my bed.
i sit on the edge of the cliff with the sea & the end of the world beneath me, and it wouldn’t matter what language we were talking in because we’d still be able to understand each other.
i dream of love by day and him by night and our cries twist into a chorus of sorts and every time we kiss it makes me feel more sick and that is why i sit and cry over the fact that we love each other but we’re idiots, you and i.
i sit with you and concentrate on my breathing, nothing more. i smile haphazardly and the summer rain comes down again and the clock hits 8am and we haven’t slept for days. we make playlists that remind us of lovers and kisses both lost and stolen, but none of that matters because we both have each other.
(wrote this a while ago and just thought i would repost it)