I don’t want to see you as the sum of the numbers that make up your life.
The likes on your selfies, the number of followers you have on Instagram,
how many girls you’ve kissed
or the number of times you’ve held a cigarette between your lips.
I want to know you for all the parts of you that don’t make sense,
for the mess of thoughts you are before the ink bleeds from your pen.
I want to hear all the things you hide
when your friends ask you if everything’s alright.
I want to touch that mark on your skin you got
one day when you thought you weren’t enough.
I want to feel the words she tattooed on your wayward heart
before she upped and left you in parts.
I don’t want you to strut your stats
(5o likes for a photo of your feet in blue waters)
and think that I care for your numbers.
I don’t care; I’ve never been good at maths.
No, I want to see that beautiful mess of a soul,
and lose myself in all the mysteries it holds.
“I have created many worlds inside my head,” she said. “and retreating into them has at times been simply pleasant and at others necessary—vital. But none have ever been this bridge between dreams and reality. I was always either rooted to the ground, or flying away with nothing to hold me back. It was never a smooth transition, and it was always one world or the other. And all my life, I have been looking for that world, and then you spring out of nowhere and just…pull out the thing I have most been yearning for out of your pocket.”
She bit her lip then, frowning a little.
“Life is strange. It seems almost too easy now.”
“You are happy,” he smiled. “And by the time you’re done worrying about happiness, it will have gone away already. So enjoy it.” he said, and kissed the top of her head.
He wanted to tell her that some kinds of happiness stay with you for a long time, for always sometimes, but he held the comment back, content in letting her ease into the world he had so readily opened to her for now.