A letter to you.
So maybe love is meant to be a little imperfect.
Maybe love is meant to be about you saying something stupid in our most intimate moments and me smiling it away and tousling your hair instead. About sitting in the theatre together and knowing that we'd rather be watching each other at home.
And now, that I'm miles away from you, I'm feeling your eyes on me all the time.
I'm waking up alone in the night and reaching out for you with my eyes shut (and I'm blaming you for spoling me thus), but I'm only losing myself in the folds of a cold blanket. And I'm surrounded by people of so many pastel shades, while I'm only looking for your vibrant color.
Tell me now... isn't this slightly flawed love we share so much better than the ethereal head-rush of something that will never be? Isn't this what you'd always wanted?
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