You

You know how to wink, my dear. Eyelash to eyelash… eyelash to eyelash.

You know how to hurt. You do a fine job at hurting me. But you are a master at hurting yourself. You learnt long ago that going up in flames only means that you can start over.

My sweet prince, you are the one.

You are the one that has no self respect. But self respect is over-rated, you always say. It involves caring too much and never having any fun. You once confessed that you only repeat that to see me throw my hair back, arch my throat and laugh whole-heartedly. I smirked mischievously because one of your other frequent statements it that I don’t have a heart.

You ask the most improbable questions. And that’s why I waste my time with you.

How can someone so lazy be ambitious?

How can someone so sociable be such an introvert?

How can I talk so much and say so little?

You looked at the pavement today. You didn’t stare. You just observed it. I could see you picturing the flight down from my roof. No obstacles in your path, for once. You are clinically depressed and I’m entertained by it. Because I don’t have a heart and sometimes I think you misplaced your common sense.

Why surround myself with normal individuals when I can live amongst the interesting ones?