What would it take?
Just tell me.
Tell me tell me tell me, please. Open up your mouth, not your fingertips or your inkwell. You know exactly where to find me 82% of the time and you know I’d drop everything and come running if you called me the other 18. I’m sitting here in cutoffs and a wifebeater watching Mad Men for the first time eating hummus off little faggy toast points and the fact that you’re not laying in my lap kind of screwing your face around to the side and making ‘feed me’ motions with your mouth is distracting me from the stunning job the costume department did tailoring these suits. Come look at me. Come tell me how to make it right. Come let me kiss you on the mouth and run my hands over your new pilates body and hug you until you can’t breathe or think. Watch this fucking show with me. Fall asleep on me. Wake up next to me. Now, and always.
Pretty please.
