What kind of lovers are we?
What kind of lovers are we? If we don't make love regularly, if we're so connected, but we talk very little.
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What kind of lovers are we? If we don't make love regularly, if we're so connected, but we talk very little.
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In the heartbeats that name you aloud, On these lips that die for a kiss from you, On the skin that cools while the soul stays still..
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And I’m talking to the men here, while every woman reading this already knows exactly what I mean. He’s not confused. He’s comfortable. There’s a big fucking difference.
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And you see that I've stopped loving to dream and see what caressing is
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You don’t move on from it. You carry it. The baby you held onto for as long as you could.
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It feels… normal. Not heroic, or exhausting. Like you deserve a medal for answering a question without getting defensive. The bar is on the floor and somehow still controversial.
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She spent years perfecting the art of betraying herself so as not to disappoint others. She walked with the weight of constant suspicion... the idea that, as it was, was not enough.
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I wanted to be yours so much; and today no more of me, with you. Fatal! Your lips stopped pronouncing a name calling me, now they only pronounce it in honor of absence.
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I had forgotten what was it that they made love to me... And he came, and she undressed me in an instant.
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When I ask this, I usually get very similar answers. Money. Time that belongs to me Being able to go where I want, when I want. Travel. Single life. No limits. There are no rules. Living life the way I want.
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"I'm going to tell you about her, she's complex and intense, she likes simple things, but sometimes anxiously crashes against what she thinks." She is always beautiful, even if her fears tell her otherwise.
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I always knew that ours was intense and indescribable, how to live the best loves, the best romances.
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