I spend every night thinking about your hands.

You have that charm, that personality, that smile, and that look. Everyone is drawn to you. Every girl thinks you're a cute boy; every guy thinks you're a good dude.

And I like you more than I'd like to because I don't want to be just like everyone else to you.
And I need to get to know the man behind those eyes.

You're a charming man,
but one of the most quietly intimidating ones I know.

And I can't remember if I ever was as amazing as you.
I'm feeling out of my league.

You'll never touch her again, so get what you can.

We can only spend so much time dancing in ambiguity
before someone trips over their own feet.

I hope I'm something in your whirlwind universe of stars and runaway lanes and freedom's own limitations.
I hope you think of me, or at the very least, make out my face in the crowd.
I suppose I should think it's a tragedy if you don't.

But I'm just an ear,
of what was said to
her or she
or he.

Perceptions of Imperfections

He runs his fingertips over her body,
her porcelain scars.
"This one is a story,
and this one is a television program."

I've got a secret.