I’m so genuinely in love with you. Horribly cringey, but it’s true. I never stop thinking of you, you race through my mind like a cheetah. I wish I could stop, maybe I’d finally have room for other things in the little headspace I have. I navigate the world as if it were more light then image, my vision is blurred. But I know your color, I know the texture of your skin. It feels so good in my arms, like our imperfections are perfectly made for one another. But I hate you. The way you go about your day, without care. Why don’t you care for the other people in this world? I love you but I can’t love what you do. I feel like I have to wash my hands after I touch you but I still do it anyway. Because I know if I don’t tomorrow I could loose that option. You’re a lovely mess and sometimes the mess is too big to overlook. I can’t stop thinking of you, whether good or bad thoughts. You’re so perfectly imperfect it hurts.